;    WIZARD'S 
t  KNOT  I 


WILLIAM 
BARRY 


UNTV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


THE    WIZARD'S    KNOT 


THE  WIZARD'S  KNOT 
BY    WILLIAM     BARRY 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  TWO  STANDARDS,"  "THE 
NEW  ANTIGONE,"  "ARDEN  MASSITER,"  ETC. 


"  Yc  shall  sing  plaintive  lays, 
Hearkening  to  which  men  shall  dream : — 
In  the  world  shall  no  music  be  sweeter." 

The  Children  ofLir. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 
1901 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


THE  OE  V1NNE  PREM 


TO 

DOUGLAS    HYDE 

PRESIDENT  OF  THE  GAELIC  LEAGUE 
AND   TO 

STANDISH    HAYES   O'GRADY 

AUTHOR  OF  "SILVA  GADELICA" 
WITH   ADMIRATION   AND   SYMPATHY 


SAMHAIN,  1900 


2125607 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

i  FROM  THE  HUNTING  FIELD 3 

ii  HECATE 12 

in  THE  GRAY  TOWER 23 

iv  POET  AND  MAGICIAN 32 

v  ON  RUMOR'S  WINGS 44 

vi  SONGS  OF  OLD  TIME 57 

vn  A  HEDGE-SCHOOL 77 

vin  THE  MIST  AND  THE  STREAM 94 

ix  FANCY  PAINTING 113 

x  THE  FORBIDDEN  DOOR 128 

xi  CHILDREN  OF  LIR 143 

xn  FREEDOM 162 

xin  IUBHDAN'S  MINSTRELSIES 176 

xiv  CASTING  A  HOROSCOPE 189 

xv  ST.  BRANDAN'S  KITCHEN 201 

xvi  THE  LAST  MAY  DAY 211 

xvn  LANDLORD  AND  TENANT 232 

xvni  HAWK  OR  EAGLE 247 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

xix   VARIOUS  THREADS 267 

xx   IMPERIAL  AUGUST 281 

xxi   THE  COUSINS 294 

XXII     BY  THE  LONNDUBH 308 

xxni    STRICKEN 326 

xxiv   AFTER  MANY  DAYS 345 

xxv   WIDOW  AND  WIFE 364 

xxvi   THE  DEVIL'S  CRAG 383 

xxvii   HAND  IN  HAND 392 

xxvin   CEANGAIL— THE  BINDING 403 


THE    WIZARD'S    KNOT 


THE  WIZARD'S    KNOT 

CHAPTER   I 

FROM    THE    HUNTING   FIELD 

KiNMORE  was  a  great  old  castle  down  in  the 
country  of  MacCarthyRiach,on  the  edge  of  the 
Atlantic,  its  one  huge  tower  dating  back  to  King 
Richard  II ;  but  landward  it  had  grown  into  a  mod- 
ern mansion  of  dark  blue  limestone,  a  lawn  inter- 
posed between  its  front  windows  and  the  oak  thickets 
which  were  its  pride,  a  brook  running  stealthily 
along  its  west  wing  to  the  stormy  or  silent  waters  of 
the  Fiord.  This  evening  the  doors  stood  wide  open, 
though  it  was  November,  and  the  air  was  dusk,  and 
rain  came  up  the  wind.  Arrows  of  shivering  light 
struck  through  the  hall  and  made  its  gloom  visible. 
The  curtains  fluttered,  sparks  leaped  out  of  the  slum- 
bering turf,  which  was  piled  up  on  a  hearth,  broad 
and  deep,  where  no  man  sat  to  warm  himself.  There 
was  quiet  when  the  wind  dropped,  when  the  light 
had  gone  out.  A  curious,  dull  quiet,  not  expectant, 

3 


4  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

nor  yet  without  some  tinge  of  apprehension.  The 
castle  had  its  ghosts;  the  winter's  wind  seemed  to 
be  calling  them  in  a  low  whisper  from  their  hiding- 
places,  and,  as  the  blast  rattled  and  shook  the  open 
doors,  a  young  man,  wrapped  up  to  the  chin  in  a 
riding-cloak,  and  wearing  heavy  boots  without 
spurs,  passed  through  hastily  from  the  weather  out- 
side. His  boots  clattered  on  the  stone  floor ;  he  was 
clearly  in  a  fierce  or  an  agitated  mood. 

"O'Sullivan,"  he  called,  when  he  had  reached  the 
foot  of  the  marble  staircase — a  strange  piece  of  ar- 
chitecture, Italian  Renaissance,  to  find  in  a  southern 
Irish  castle.  "O'Sullivan,  where  are  you?" 

A  door  opened  abruptly  at  the  side ;  out  came  an 
elderly  but  smart-looking  man,  whom  you  would  at 
once  have  taken  for  what  he  was — the  butler,  house- 
steward,  major-domo,  of  Renmore.  He  ran  forward 
a  step,  paused,  and  broke  into  a  high  voice:  "God 
send  I  may  live,  Mr.  Edmund,  is  it  you?"  His 
throat  seemed  to  shake  the  words  and  splinter  them. 

"Me,  me;  of  course  it  is  me!  Why  not,  O'Sulli- 
van? But  where  's  Sir  Philip?" 

O'Sullivan  looked  thunderstruck.  "I  was  send- 
ing after  you  this  very  minute,  sir,"  he  stammered. 
"You  have  n't  seen  him  ?  My  old  brain  is  all  in  com- 
motion. Don't  you  know,  Mr.  Edmund,  what  's 
happened  at  all  ?" 


FROM   THE   HUNTING   FIELD  5 

Edmund  Liscarroll  looked  his  astonishment. 
"I  'm  only  just  back  from  the  village,"  said  he.  "I 
want  my  cousin  immediately.  What  has  happened  ?" 
He  took  a  step  forward,  then  moved  back  again. 
"Did  you  hear  it  too?  Was  there  ever  such  mad- 
ness?" His  voice  dropped,  and  he  turned  and  bit 
his  lip  viciously.  O'Sullivan  watched  him  in  be- 
wilderment. The  wind  seemed  to  be  driving  the 
light  in  flakes  through  the  air,  as  if  making  game  of 
it,  and  of  them — so  Edmund  thought,  after  his 
poet's  fashion,  which  no  access  of  trouble  or  surprise 
could  beat  out  of  him. 

"You  know  it?"  he  repeated  with  an  ashy,  eager 
countenance.  "How?  Who  brought  the  news?" 

The  steward  drew  back  deferentially.  He  always 
resented  "Master  Edmund's"  sharp  temper,  but 
dared  not  show  it.  The  young  man's  rage  had  often 
daunted  him.  "Yerra,  what  would  I  know,"  he  an- 
swered, "but  that  twenty  minutes  ago  Banba  came 
back  to  the  stable,  and  she  half  killed  with  galloping, 
the  poor  beast,  the  reins  cut  into  shavings,  and  the 
saddle  gone  from  her  ? — " 

"Banba  ?  the  mare  Philip  took  out  this  morning  to 
the  meet?  Without  her  master?  Did  you  say 
alone,  O'Sullivan?" 

Edmund  had  become  a  different  man  on  hearing 
this  news.  He  came  up  and  gripped  the  steward's 


6  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

hand  hard.  Now  his  face  was  in  a  flame.  The  old 
servant  could  make  him  out  less  than  ever. 

"I  did,  Mr.  Edmund,"  he  answered  sulkily.  "The 
mare  was  with  herself  only,  and  in  a  lather  of  sweat, 
and  wild,  like  the  horse  of  The  O'Donoghue. 
Where  's  Sir  Philip  ?  you  ask  me.  Sure,  I  was  ask- 
ing you  that,  sir.  I  'm  sending  boys  east  and  west 
to  get  tidings  of  him.  If  we  don't  hear  before  night, 
't  is  dead  he  is,  or  as  bad,  in  some  bog-hole." 

"He  can't  be  dead.  He  must  n't  be  dead,"  replied 
Edmund,  in  unsteady  tones,  while  the  steward  lis- 
tened, between  dislike  to  the  "Tanist,"  or  heir-pre- 
sumptive— a  by-word  he  had  for  this  young  man — 
and  fear  of  what  might  befall  himself  ere  long.  If 
the  master  had  broken  his  neck,  here  was  Sir  Ed- 
mund; Renmore  fell  to  him;  but  would  O' Sullivan 
be  his  major-domo? 

"Come,"  cried  the  other,  shaking  off  his  deep  rev- 
erie, for,  as  he  stood  there,  he  dreamt  with  his  eyes 
open.  "Come,  let  us  look  upstairs — everywhere. 
He  may  be  in  the  house.  Not  dead,  I  tell  you;" 
but  as  he  sprang  along  the  marble  steps,  and  O' Sul- 
livan followed,  a  keen  ear  would  have  heard  him 
muttering,  "Yet,  who  knows  ? — dead  perhaps  would 
be  best!" 

They  hurried  and  scurried  over  corridors  hung 
with  classic  pictures,  into  fine  old  dusty  rooms,  and 


FROM   THE   HUNTING  FIELD  7 

at  last  up  into  the  tower,  which  had  its  narrow  stone 
steps  passing  from  story  to  story,  its  small  windows 
set  in  masonry  ten  feet  thick,  its  rat-haunted  garrets. 
A  mere  solitude!  There  was  not  a  living  man  in 
Renmore  but  themselves.  With  terror  they  looked 
in  each  other's  faces. 

"We  must  try  the  stables;  he  would  go  there  to 
inquire  after  Banba,"  said  Edmund,  as  they  left  the 
topmost  rooms.  Darkness  was  falling;  the  night 
seemed  to  make  a  third  in  their  company,  and  to 
grow  more  palpable  with  every  step  they  took. 

Their  way  lay  through  the  hall.  It  was  now  in 
dense  shadow,  except  for  a  sparkle  from  the  glow  of 
the  turf.  As  they  reached  the  stair-head,  a  gust 
more  impetuous  than  before  dashed  the  open  doors 
together.  They  could  see  nothing.  Next  minute 
the  doors  swung  back;  a  dim,  solid  outline,  as  of 
some  figure  interposing,  hid  the  fire  from  them. 
"God's  life!  what 's  that?"  cried  O'SulIivan. 

The  figure  made  no  movement.  It  was  seated 
close  to  the  hearth,  and  its  back  was  to  the  men  who 
now,  with  a  certain  thrill — not  dread,  nor  hope,  but 
mingled  of  these — came  down  and  drew  near  it. 
The  murky  flames  flickered  and  danced  with  a  fan- 
tastic grace.  Edmund  was  in  advance;  his  hand 
touched  the  shoulder  of  the  apparition,  and  he 
started  back.  He  had  actually  been  on  the  point  of 


8  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

crying  out,  "Who  are  you?"  when  his  eyes  antici- 
pated his  speech  and  gave  it  a  different  turn. 

"Phil !  what  in  the  name  of  wonder  has  happened 
to  you?"  he  cried.  "Why  are  you  sitting  here?" 

Had  it  been  a  thing  not  of  flesh  and  blood,  his 
tones  would  have  expressed  equal  horror — a  greater 
they  could  not.  The  seated  man  answered  no  word 
during  a  moment  which  gaped  with  frightful  emo- 
tions, making  it  seem  tragic  in  its  length. 

"Do  say  something,  Phil,  for  God's  sake!" 
whispered  his  cousin,  steadying  himself  with  a  hand 
on  the  low-backed  chair.  "What  is  it?  Are  you 
hurt?" 

Sir  Philip — since  he  it  was,  in  cords  and  pink,  as 
just  home  from  the  chase — lifted  a  hand  to  his  fore- 
head, gave  a  glance  round,  and  looked  into  the  fire 
once  more.  O'Sullivan  shook  his  head  ominously. 
He  was  beginning  to  speak  when  Sir  Philip's  voice 
stopped  him. 

"I  thought  I  went  out  hunting  to-day,"  he  said  in 
a  sleepy  tone,  addressing  nobody  in  particular.  "Did 
I  go?"  He  was  feeling  about  in  search  of  some 
object.  "Here  is  my  hunting-crop,"  he  continued, 
after  an  interval.  "How  comes  it  on  my  knees? 
Was  n't  I  at  the  meet?" 

"You  were,  indeed,  Sir  Philip,"  answered  O'Sul- 
livan, with  an  extraordinarv  tenderness  in  his  ex- 


FROM    THE    HUNTING   FIELD  9 

pression,  quite  unlike  the  sarcastic  or  sulky  tones  in 
which  he  had  spoken  to  Edmund.  "You  were  that 
same,  sir;  and  you  took  Banba  with  you.  Did  the 
mare  fall,  or  how  was  it?" 

The  young  baronet  appeared  not  to  be  listening. 
"Those  Galway  horses  are  the  devil  for  jumping," 
he  said  reflectively,  in  his  curious,  disengaged  way, 
"but  they  don't  understand  hunting  in  Munster. 
She  just  put  up  her  forefeet  on  the  wall,  and  there 
I  was !  or  did  I  dream  it  ? — lying  on  the  flat  of  my 
back!  That  infernal  Banba!  She  '11  have  to  be 
shot  to-morrow." 

O' Sullivan  had  been  stirring  up  the  embers,  which 
now  burst  into  a  glorious  blue  and  yellow  flame. 
But  while  Sir  Philip  was  soliloquizing,  he  motioned 
to  Edmund  and  drew  his  finger  slowly  across  his 
forehead.  The  young  man  made  a  sign  of  intelli- 
gence. He  took  his  cousin's  arm  and  helped  him, 
unresisting,  to  stand  up.  "My  dear  Phil."  said  he 
entreatingly,  "you  have  had  a  rough  day ;  you  ought 
to  be  in  bed.  Come,  I  will  help  you  to  your  room." 

"No,  no,"  answered  the  other,  shaking  himself 
loose.  "I  'm  not  hurt.  I  've  had  a  fall,  perhaps. 
Yes,  I  must  have  had.  But,  then,  I  walked  home. 
It  's  nothing.  Don't  stare  like  that,  you  fellows. 
How  soon  is  dinner,  O'Sullivan  Beara?"  He  smiled, 
lurched  forward,  and  had  nearly  tripped  himself  up. 


io  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

All  his  motions  put  one  in  mind  of  a  man  who 
wanted  to  outface  it  that  he  was  none  the  worse  for 
a  drop  too  much.  His  short,  red  curls  over  the  pink 
of  his  hunting- jacket  took  on  a  fiery  gleam  as  he  came 
up  to  the  hearth  and  bent  close  to  it  again.  Erect, 
he  stood  a  head  taller  than  his  cousin ;  they  had  some 
points  of  resemblance,too,but  Philip's  habitual  ruddi- 
ness of  feature,  deepening  now  to  a  violet  tinge,  was 
in  contrast  with  the  delicate,  pale,  though  not  con- 
sumptive look  of  his  cousin,  whose  quick  gestures 
had  a  passion  in  them  more  subtle,  if  not  more  pro- 
found, than  the  baronet's  heavier  movements. 

"Put  your  hand  to  him,  Mr.  Edmund."  whispered 
the  major-domo.  "If  he  was  n't  the  soberest  man 
in  the  barony,  't  is  overtaken  I  'd  say  he  was  this 
night.  Won't  you  go  to  bed,  sir?"  he  added  coax- 
ingly  to  the  half-sleeping  youth,  who  had  sunk 
down  in  his  chair,  the  image  of  fatigue. 

"Send  for  Dr.  Driscoll,"  said  Edmund,  and  then 
he  struck  his  forehead  in  desperation.  "No,  we 
must  n't  send ;  the  country  would  ring  with  it.  What 
in  Heaven's  name  is  to  be  done?"  He  walked  up 
and  down  the  hall,  muttering  to  himself.  "Bad  here 
and  worse  there !  A  day  of  misfortunes !  Philip, 
I  say,"  coming  to  the  bright  circle  of  the  flame  and 
shaking  his  cousin  rudely,  "will  you  dine  or  will 
you  sleep?  This  is  no  place  for  you,  anyhow.  I 
am  going  to  take  you  upstairs." 


FROM   THE   HUNTING   FIELD  n 

The  sharp  voice,  the  hands  laid  on  him,  appeared 
to  rouse  Philip.  He  thrust  Edmund  aside.  "I  told 
you,  O' Sullivan,  to  get  dinner  ready;  don't  you 
hear?"  he  said  in  his  throat.  "And  to-morrow 
have  Banba  shot.  Eddie,  leave  me  to  myself.  Are 
you  master  in  this  house  ?" 

He  staggered  along,  caught  hold  of  the  balus- 
trade, and  clinging  to  it  began  to  go  up  the  stairs. 
"I  '11  get  him  into  the  dining-room,"  said  his  cousin. 
"You  put  dinner  on  the  table.  Send  up  some  brandy 
first."  To  which  O'Sullivan  made  no  reply,  but 
disappeared,  as  he  had  come,  through  the  side  door. 


CHAPTER  II 

HECATE 

WHEN  Philip,  repulsing  every  offer  of  help, 
had  groped  his  way  into  the  dim-lighted  room 
above,  he  threw  himself  into  an  armchair  and  fell 
asleep.  Edmund  watched  him  in  silence.  "Not  an 
atom  of  good  sending  for  Driscoll,"  he  repeated 
with  a  sort  of  exasperation ;  "the  message  would  be 
taken  wrong,  and  Phil,  my  lad,  you  would  n't  have 
the  ghost  of  a  chance.  Why  did  you  run  your  head 
against  a  stone  wall,  this  day  of  all  days?  Well, 
whatever  comes  of  it,  I  shall  get  the  credit — I  always 
did.  What  an  unlucky  whelp  I  am !" 

He  kept  on  saying,  thinking,  this  and  the  like,  as 
more  candles  were  brought  in,  plates  laid,  and  dinner 
spread  on  the  big  oak  table.  There  was  a  roaring 
fire  in  the  chimney.  "Will  I  close  the  curtains?" 
asked  O'Sullivan;  "  't  is  n't  right  for  the  man  in  the 
moon  to  be  showing  his  face  at  the  window." 

Edmund  sighed  impatiently.  "Do  as  you  like, 
good  man.  Where  's  the  brandy?  You  have  it? 
moisten  a  napkin  with  some  and  lay  it  on  Sir 


HECATE  13 

Philip's  forehead.  We  dare  not  wake  him.  Dip 
the  cloth  well ;  that  way  now ;  it  is  better  than  pour- 
ing it  down  a  sick  man's  throat." 

"Your  honor  should  know,  indeed,  what  would  be 
best,"  murmured  the  steward.  "Whisky  is  a  fine 
greatcoat  when  you  Ve  lost  your  clothes,  as  the  song 
says ;  but  I  never  hear  tell  it  would  do  for  a  poultice 
on  a  man's  head.  Is  it  to  tie  it  I  would?" 

His  cousin  had  bound  this  "brandy  poultice" 
about  Philip's  head  as  a  compress.  In  a  few  min- 
utes it  began  to  affect  the  patient;  he  sat  up  and 
looked  round;  then  spoke  as  if  coming  to  himself. 
"I  have  had  a  nasty  fall ;  but  no  bones  broken ;  my 
head  is  all  right.  What  is  this?"  He  would  have 
pulled  off  the  bandage.  Explanations  followed. 
He  was  now  quite  sensible,  and  grasped  Edmund's 
hand.  "You  did  well  not  to  send  for  Driscoll,"  he 
said,  rising  and  taking  his  place  at  the  table.  "I 
feel  a  bit  queer,  that  's  all.  I  shall  be  as  right  as  a 
trivet  to-morrow." 

"With  God's  help,"  concluded  O' Sullivan,  look- 
ing at  his  master.  "With  God's  help,  Sir  Phil. 
You  're  young  yet ;  a  little  thing  would  n't  hurt  you. 
'T  is  we  ould  stagers  must  be  saying  to  ourselves,  like 
King  Cormac  MacArt,  'The  end  of  a  boat  is  drown- 
ing; the  end  of  health  is  a  sigh.'  But  you  will  be 
out  with  the  hounds  on  Tuesday,  please  God." 


i4  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

He  had  fallen  into  Gaelic,  as  almost  all,  gentle  and 
simple,  did  in  that  neighborhood  at  whiles,  the  peo- 
ple using  it  as  their  everyday  speech,  their  masters 
hearing  it  from  them — above  all,  in  moments  of 
excited  feeling,  and  so  getting  acquainted  with  more 
phrases  than  they  could  readily  pronounce.  It  was 
the  native  tongue  of  Miles  O'Sullivan;  as  for  Ed- 
mund, he  not  only  spoke  and  wrote  in  it,  but  com- 
posed Irish  songs,  lyrical,  sentimental,  facetious; 
and  Sir  Philip  understood  what  was  said,  though  he 
seemed  disdainful  of  its  pathos  and  beauty.  The  old 
language  was  nothing  to  him.  For  books  he  had  no 
turn;  he  detested  reading;  and  he  laughed  in  his 
sudden,  silent  way  at  Edmund  the  poet.  To-night 
he  found  himself  in  another  mood.  "  The  end  of 
health  is  a  sigh/  "  he  repeated,  without  looking  up. 
"That  's  pretty,  O'Sullivan;  but  you  will  see  me 
all  there  to-morrow,  no  fear." 

The  steward  began  to  serve  dinner.  He  was 
thinking,  "Why  would  n't  Sir  Phil  say  'Plase  God/ 
like  the  rest  of  us?  That  Edmund  there  is  a  high 
young  man,  and  he  's  saucy  enough  to  me ;  but  he  'd 
say  it.  Is  it  because  the  master  was  brought  up  at 
those  English  schools  across  the  water?  That  was 
his  mother's  doing,  bad  scran  to  her."  But  of  all 
this  Miles's  open,  half-smiling  face  betrayed  as  little 
as  his  deferential  and  affectionate  service  about  the 
young  men. 


HECATE  15 

They  made  a  poor  meal,  without  conversation, 
Philip  recovering  by  degrees  from  his  fit,  Edmund 
glancing  at  him  frequently  across  the  table,  and  for- 
getting to  empty  the  silver  cup  which  he  raised  to 
his  lips.  The  fire  blazed;  the  misty  yellow  moon 
stared  in  at  the  long  windows;  occasional  drops  of 
storm  whipped  the  panes  and  drove  on;  as  the  hour 
went  by,  and  the  young  master  seemed  more  cheer- 
ful, his  cousin  fidgeted,  got  up  and  walked  about, 
struck  the  turf-sods  with  his  heel,  and  at  last  told 
Miles  they  should  want  him  in  a  couple  of  hours, 
and  he  had  better  wait  up.  He  took  the  hint  and 
retired. 

Still  Edmund  did  not  speak.  There  was  silence, 
which  instead  of  quieting  the  baronet  excited  him. 
He  returned  the  other's  sidelong  glances  with  a  look 
into  which  fever  threw  some  of  its  wildness.  "Do 
you  think  me  very  ill,  Eddie?"  he  said  at  last. 
"Your  face  is  as  black  as  thunder." 

"I  wish  I  knew,"  returned  his  cousin,  "how  you 
do  feel.  I  have  something  to — "  he  stopped  dead 
and  a  lump  came  into  his  throat.  Philip  eyed  him 
with  amazement. 

"You  are  not  in  a  fright  about  me?"  he  said. 
"Really,  Edmund,  I  thought  you  had  more  pluck. 
It  is  all  that  poetry." 

A  curious  smile  crossed  Edmund's  lips  and  van- 
ished. "Time  is  running  on,"  he  said  almost  with 


16  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

a  groan;  "it  must  be  done.  Phil,  my  dear  boy,  can 
you  bear  bad  news  ? '  I'm  sorry — cut  to  the  heart — 
but  there  it  is." 

"There  is  what?"  asked  Philip.  "Out  with  it, 
old  fellow,  and  never  mind  me."  But  his  cousin, 
like  a  man  paralyzed,  sat  and  glared  at  him  help- 
lessly. 

"What  bad  news  have  you?"  insisted  the  other, 
getting  up  as  he  spoke.  A  large  glass  of  brandy 
stood  at  his  elbow ;  he  took  it  down  at  a  gulp.  "Out 
with  it,"  he  cried  again,  "my  head  is  splitting." 

At  length  in  a  strangled  whisper,  in  a  voice  that 
was  strange  to  himself,  Edmund  let  the  word  loose. 
"Phil,  Lady  Liscarroll  is  back  in  Ireland." 

It  was  a  blow  of  stunning  force,  under  which  the 
young  man  winced. 

"My  mother?  Back  in  Ireland?  I  thought  she 
was  a  thousand  miles  away;  that  she  would  never 
come  back.  Where  do  you  say  she  is?" 

"In  the  village,  at  Dr.  Driscoll's.  It  is  all  that 
flighty  Mrs.  Driscoll's  doing,  I  could  take  my  oath." 

The  news  had  overpowered  them,  and  they  sat 
speechless.  The  moon  stared  in,  the  rain  struck 
heavily  on  the  panes.  "How  do  you  know?"  said 
Philip,  after  many  minutes.  His  mind  was  all 
abroad. 

"Because  I  have  seen  her.     I  was  coming  this 


HECATE  17 

afternoon  from  Cathal  O'Dwyer's,  and  the  doctor's 
wife  met  me.  She  beckoned  me  aside  with  a  smile 
and  a  flounce ;  there  was  something  to  show  me  if  I 
would  step  in  at  Driscoll's.  I  went,  expecting  I 
don't  know  what.  I  was  taken  into  the  haggard, 
left  to  my  own  thoughts  awhile,  and  then  the  door 
opened,  and  a  lady  came  out  to  me." 

"You  don't  tell  me  that  my  mother  is  her  own 
maid's  guest,  in  my  village?"  The  man's  shame 
and  anguish  were  extreme.  His  eyes  filled  with  hot 
tears. 

"I  tell  you  no  less.  In  mourning — Philip,  mark 
what  I  say — in  mourning,  but  with  the  air  I  know 
so  well,  with  a  steady  step,  she  walked  up  to  where 
I  stood  and  put  out  her  hand.  Forgive  me — I  drew 
back."  His  cousin  winced  again,  but  said  nothing. 
"We  had  n't  much  talk.  There  she  was — Lady 
Liscarroll.  In  a  few  hours  the  village  people  would 
hear  of  it — our  neighbors — the  whole  country." 

"But  what  brought  her  ?  In  mourning,  you  say  ? 
That  should'be  a  sign  of  grace.  Why  is  she  here?" 

His  cousin's  embarrassment  grew  every  instant. 
He  got  up  and  went  over  to  a  heap  of  newspapers 
which  were  lying  on  the  ground.  "Do  you  never 
read  anything  in  the  Times'  but  sporting  news?" 
he  asked  almost  savagely.  "Phil,  I  must  give  you 
a  harder  blow  than  you  got  from  Banba  this  after- 


i8  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

noon.  Here  is  what  I  read  three  weeks  ago;  you 
don't  know  it  yet.  I  was  in  two  minds  whether  to 
keep  the  paper  or  destroy  it,  until  I  said  to  myself 
you  might  be  inquiring  for  it  if  the  devil  put  it  into 
your  head.  Look  down  this  list." 

They  held  the  paper  up  to  the  light,  and  Edmund 
directed  his  cousin's  eye  to  an  announcement  among 
the  recent  deaths.  It  was  curt  enough.  Philip 
recited  the  words  in  an  undertone,  as  people  read 
letters  on  the  stage. 

"At  Wiesbaden,  on  2d  November,  Henry  Lifford, 
formerly  captain  in  the  King's  Third  Regiment  of 
Dragoon  Guards,  very  suddenly." 

"What  does  it  mean  by  Very  suddenly'?"  asked 
Philip,  in  the  same  tone. 

"I  think  it  means  he  killed  himself,"  answered  his 
cousin. 

"After  gambling  at  Wiesbaden?" 

"After  gambling  at  Wiesbaden.  Now  you  know 
what  you  should  have  known  three  weeks  ago  if  you 
had  looked  into  your  paper." 

"But — did  you  expect  Lady  Liscarroll  back 
again?  You  saw  this  piece  of  news  and  did  n't 
warn  me."  A  dreadful  agony  came  into  Philip's 
voice,  though  he  neither  sobbed  nor  shook.  His 


HECATE  19 

brain-fever  had  been  scattered  by  the  calamity  which 
tore  his  heart. 

"I  can't  say  I  expected  her  back.  She  might  not 
have  been  with  Lifford;  we  lost  sight  of  her  long 
ago;  it  was  never  actually  clear  that  Lifford  had  a 
hand  in  it  when  she  ran.  We  did  n't  know  what 
she  was  doing." 

"My  father  always  believed  she  went  away  with 
Lifford." 

"Put  this  and  that  together — his  death  and  her 
coming  to  Driscoll's — it  must  be  Sir  Walter  was 
right.  There  is  only  one  living  soul  besides  that 
could  tell  us  all  the  story,  and  that  is  Sarah  North, 
now  Mrs.  Driscoll.  But  she  keeps  her  thin  lips 
tight.  You  will  get  no  Queen's  evidence  from 
Sarah  North." 

"Do  I  want  any?  You  shake  your  head  and  say 
I  do.  Have  you  more  news,  Eddie?"  This  stal- 
wart young  huntsman  was  a  sad  spectacle.  His 
brain  would  not  work;  he  felt  the  lightning  was  in 
the  cloud,  but  on  which  side  would  it  next  be  flash- 
ing? His  cousin  pitied  him,  yet  with  a  mixture  of 
impatient  scorn. 

"The  lady  gave  me  a  commission,"  he  said  slowly; 
"I  brought  it  to  save  you  a  world  of  talk  and  scan- 
dal. She  has  spent  her  fortune ;  I  did  n't  inquire  how, 
or  what  amount  of  it  the  bank  at  Wiesbaden  has 


20  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

taken  over.  She  calls  herself  penniless.  She  asks 
as  a  right  or  a  favor,  I  can  hardly  tell  which,  that 
you  will  give  her  a  home  at  Renmore." 

Philip  made  a  mighty  effort  to  restrain  himself. 
"Did  you  tell  Lady  Liscarroll,"  he  said  passionately, 
"that  my  father's  grave  is  at  Renmore  ?  Look,  you 
can  see  it  from  this  window." 

He  flung  the  glass  doors  open,  walked  through, 
and  stood  on  the  balcony.  Edmund  followed  him. 
The  mist  was  rolling  off;  a  purple-blue  sky  came 
out  in  places,  with  faint  stars,  and  the  moon  whiten- 
ing. Away,  but  not  far,  under  tall  oaks,  were  lean- 
ing gravestones.  "My  father  lies  there,  Eddie,"  re- 
peated his  cousin.  "Would  Lady  Liscarroll  like  to 
live  with  that  full  in  her  view  ?" 

The  scene  was  more  stormy  than  peaceful;  but 
Death  is  the  kingdom  of  peace.  They  felt  somehow 
quieted.  "I  hinted  as  much,"  said  Edmund. 

"And  what  did  she  say?" 

"She  answered,  with  the  least  little  smile,  which 
made  me  harder  than  I  ever  felt  to  her — God  knows 
that  was  hard  enough!— "I  am  not  afraid  of  Sir 
Walter,  now  he  is  dead !" 

"She  shall  never  come  here!"  exclaimed  Philip. 
"This  it  is  to  have  a  mother !  She  shall  not,  Eddie. 
Do  you  think  she  ought?" 

"Let  us  discuss  it  indoors,"  said  his  companion, 


HECATE  21 

turning  from  the  uncanny,  troubled  night.  And 
when  they  were  seated :  "Phil,  I  owe  you  my  best 
advice ;  but  the  decision  lies  with  you.  Thank  God. 
I  have  no  mother — I  never  knew  mine.  Sir  Walter 
was  a  kind  father  to  me — " 

"And  Renmore  would  be  yours  if  I  died  child- 
less." 

"I  don't  deny  it.  Still,  who  am  I  that  I  should 
come  between  a  son  and  his  mother?" 

Philip  groaned.  "She  has  unmothered  herself. 
Why  did  she  leave  me?  I  was  but  fourteen — her 
only  son.  Why  did  she?  And  my  father — his 
heart  snapped  in  two." 

"Blood  is  thicker  than  water,"  replied  the  heir- 
presumptive. 

"It  is ;  I  can  see  it  on  her  hands.  Yet  you  would 
have  me  take  her  in — sit  at  table  with  her — intro- 
duce, with  lies  about  her  long  convalescence,  my 
mother  to  her  old  friends  again?" 

Edmund  gave  him  a  piercing  look.  "I  think  you 
will,"  he  said. 

"Why,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  bad?" 

"Can  you  fancy  your  mother  starving  outside 
your  gates,  the  country  looking  on?"  It  was  a  cold 
voice  which  uttered  these  unpalatable  truths;  Ed- 
mund hated  himself  for  it;  but  the  tone  would  not 
melt  or  soften. 


22  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"I  can't  see  my  way,"  said  Philip,  his  head  droop- 
ing on  his  outstretched  hands.  "To  make  her  an 
allowance,  the  estate  being  in  such  a  condition,  is 
impossible.  She  will  not  go,  since  Lifford  is  dead. 
I  am  under  a  curse." 

"What  noise  is  that  below?"  cried  the  other, 
starting  to  his  feet.  "I  hear  voices.  There  are 
footsteps  on  the  stairs.  And  the  door  is  opening. 
Philip,  be  a  man.  Here  's  O'Sullivan." 

The  steward  tumbled  into  the  room,  pale  as  a 
sheet,  all  his  golden  words  spent.  He  could  only 
gasp,  "Sir  Philip,  your  mother!"  and  reel  against 
the  wall  as  a  stately  person  entered  behind  him,  in 
mourning  from  head  to  foot. 

"Yes,"  said  a  calm,  self-sustained  voice,  "your 
mother,  Sir  Philip.  Don't  you  know  me?" 

"You  are  Lady  Liscarroll,"  said  her  son,  rising 
and  facing  her.  "My  mother  died  ten  years  ago." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    GRAY    TOWER 

THAT  word  of  Philip's  lightened  through  the 
room,  loosing  deep  thunders  in  the  imagina- 
tion; and  the  lookers-on  drew  their  breath  heavily. 

"Did  Edmund  bring  you  my  message — my 
prayer,  if  you  will?"  said  her  ladyship,  recovering 
as  from  a  sudden  blow.  Her  face  was  touched  with 
color  beneath  its  dark  lace,  and  the  large,  clear  eyes 
— so  like  Philip's — sparkled  for  an  instant  with  pain, 
then  were  steady. 

"Why  do  you  rise  up  from  the  dead  to  torment 
us?"  interposed  her  nephew,  coming  from  the  win- 
dow. "Is  this  your  reason?"  He  held  out  the 
newspaper,  almost  as  a  challenge;  she  caught  the 
allusion,  and  a  flood  of  crimson  dyed  her  face  and 
brow. 

"I  have  come  home  to  my  son,"  was  the  reply, 
tremulous  but  undaunted.  "Did  you  give  him  my 
message?" 

"You  never  came  to  my  father,"  cried  Philip ;  "he 
23 


24  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

is  dead,  by  your  hand.  Is  that  black  you  wear  in 
his  remembrance?" 

Again  she  put  the  stinging  words  aside.  "Philip, 
you  are  all  that  is  left  to  me,"  said  this  astonishing 
woman,  heedless  of  the  stroke  she  might  bring  down 
by  her  bold  speech,  "I  am  without  house  or  home; 
I  have  no  money,  no  friends,  every  one  has  turned 
against  me;"  her  voice  sank  into  a  melting  key. 
"Have  I  done  wrong  to  come  here  ?  Where  would 
you  have  me  go?" 

The  steward,  who  had  served  her  and  Sir  Walter 
from  their  first  days  together  at  the  castle,  saw  her 
now  with  admiration  putting  forth  her  enchant- 
ments again.  He  rebelled,  and  as  of  old  was  capti- 
vated. "  'T  is  true  for  you,  my  lady,"  said  O'Sulli- 
van.  "I  beg  pardon,  Sir  Philip;  where  else  would 
the  mother  turn  if  it  was  n't  to  her  son  ?" 

"Silence,  Miles,"  broke  in  Edmund,  sharply. 
"This  is  not  affair  of  yours,  or  of  mine.  Yes,  Lady 
Liscarroll,  I  carried  your  words.  You  might  have 
waited  for  the  answer  till  morning." 

Hitherto  the  tall  dark  figure  with  its  clear  coun- 
tenance freshened  in  the  night  wind,  and  its  bright 
hair  under  the  widow's  weeds,  had  been  standing 
close  to  the  door.  It  now  moved  hastily  for- 
ward. The  lady  put  out  her  hands  to  Philip,  who 
recoiled  and  fell  against  the  dinner-table,  stagger- 


THE   GRAY  TOWER  25 

ing  with  it  toward  the  fire.  Edmund  caught  him, 
or  he  would  have  come  down  upon  the  blazing 
hearth. 

"Go  away,  don't  touch  him,"  cried  he  in  a  voice 
of  killing  contempt  and  hatred.  "Your  son  has 
been  struck  once  to-day.  Spare  him  your  presence. 
Go  back  to  Sarah  North." 

He  was  helping  the  baronet  into  a  chair,  putting 
water  to  his  lips,  doing  what  he  could  to  keep  him 
from  swooning.  The  lady  clasped  her  hands  with  a 
gesture  of  well-acted  pity;  but  she  made  no  further 
attempt  to  approach  her  son.  Philip  had  not  lost 
consciousness ;  he  grasped  Edmund  by  the  arm  and 
stood  up,  resolute,  though  still  in  a  mental  haze. 
"You  should  have  waited  till  I  sent  word,"  he  mut- 
tered with  difficulty,  not  exchanging  looks  with  the 
strange  woman  who  called  herself  his  mother,  and 
whose  voice  and  features  floated  slowly  up  to  him 
out  of  his  childhood's  dreams  and  long-forgotten 
experiences. 

"I  was  waiting,"  said  Lady  Liscarroll,  "though 
not  sure  of  your  cousin — you  always  thought  me  a 
stepmother  to  you,  Edmund,  don't  deny  it — but  a 
boy  from  the  castle  told  the  doctor  you  were  thrown 
— killed,  he  said — out  hunting,  and  they  were 
searching  for  the  body.  Could  I  wait  when  I  heard 
such  news?  Dr.  Driscoll  brought  me;  he  is  in  the 


26  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

hall.     Won't  you  let  me  nurse  you,  Philip?"     No 
tones  could  be  more  persuasive. 

"If  you  lay  your  hand  on  me,"  said  her  son,  with 
an  icy  accent,  "though  you  were  ten  times  my 
mother  I  will  kill  you.  Send  Dr.  Driscoll  to  his 
wife.  I  want  no  doctors.  You  shall  hear  in  a 
minute  what  I  will  do  with  you." 

Her  eloquence  was  no  match  for  his.  The  mois- 
ture died  off  her  lips,  and  she  felt  a  strangling  in  her 
throat.  Edmund,  his  nerves  astrain,  watched  lest 
Philip  should  get  free  from  him  and  do  some  mis- 
chief beyond  retrieving.  The  steward  was  aware 
of  a  chill  sensation  running  through  his  old  limbs. 
What  was  Philip  about  to  say?  Did  he  know  it 
himself?  The  veins  stood  out  on  his  forehead,  and 
when  he  spoke  his  voice  grated  harshly  on  the  ears 
of  the  listeners. 

"Lady  Liscarroll,"  he  began  formally,  still  turned 
away  from  her,  "you  have  come  late  to  my  father's 
funeral.  Late,  but  you  are  here.  And  my  guest! 
I  must  give  you  lodging.  O'Sullivan,  is  the  High 
Room  in  the  tower  fit  for  use?"  At  these  words 
the  air  seemed  to  shiver  about  them  all. 

"I  could  n't  tell  you,  Sir  Philip,"  stammered 
Miles,  with  colorless  lips;  "the  wife  would  know 
those  things.  'T  is  long  since  any  person  slept  in 
the  Gray  Tower." 


THE   GRAY  TOWER  27 

"This  lady  will  sleep  there  to-night — perhaps 
more  nights  than  one.  Your  wife  will  be  her  maid. 
And  you,  Miles,"  with  a  horrid,  unnatural  laugh, 
immediately  snapped  into  the  words  that  followed, 
"shall  be  her  jailer,  seneschal,  anything  you  please 
to  call  it.  Only  you  must  see  the  tower  is  locked." 

"I  will  go  down  to  the  village  again,"  said  the 
lady,  all  her  feathers  drooping.  She  thought  Philip 
out  of  his  mind.  There  came  over  her  a  sickening- 
apprehension,  as  of  plague  suddenly  broken  out 
among  them.  Even  Edmund  was  startled. 

"You  will  do  no  such  thing,  madam,"  replied  her 
son;  "the  tower  is  your  place  until  I  decide  on  a 
change  of  air  for  you.  Miles,  go  down  and  give  my 
compliments  to  Dr.  Driscoll ;  he  need  not  wait.  Tell 
your  wife  my  orders.  Now,  off  with  you.  Lady 
Liscarroll,  pray  be  seated  until  everything  is  ready." 

"Edmund,  take  my  part,"  said  the  unhappy  wo- 
man, turning  to  him;  "don't  remember  old  scores. 
I  can't,  I  won't  be  imprisoned.  What  have  I  done? 
Come  home,  and  my  son  treats  me  like — " 

"Like  his  father's  wife,"  interrupted  Philip. 
"This  is  my  lookout,  not  Edmund's.  O'Sullivan. 
must  I  do  my  own  errands?" 

The  steward  was  fleeing  downstairs  at  that 
sound,  in  as  great  disorder  as  had  marked  his  en- 
trance. Edmund  gave  the  lady  a  chair  and  stood 


28  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

a  little  way  off.  In  his  mind's  eye  he  was  scruti- 
nizing the  large,  dim  chamber  which  he  and  O'Sulli- 
van  had  peered  into  that  afternoon,  with  its  dream- 
like air  of  abandonment,  its  brown  walls,  rotting 
Indian  mats  on  the  stone  floor,  spindle-legged  fur- 
niture in  dark  woods,  and  spectral  mirrors — a  room 
such  as  Albert  Durer  would  have  put  into  his  en- 
gravings for  its  ghostliness.  No  one  had  slept  in 
it  since  the  riotous  old  days  when  Renmore  was 
filled  with  drinking  and  card-playing  parties,  in  the 
prosperous  war  time,  thirty  years  before  this.  He 
fancied  the  lady  alone  up  there,  with  no  companion 
or  outlook  but  the  sea.  A  caged  eagle !  She  would 
be  eating  her  heart  alive. 

The  minutes  dragged  on,  restless,  yet  slow,  as 
when  a  crowd  is  waiting  to  see  an  execution.  No- 
body spoke.  There  were  stealthy  noises  in  the 
castle,  feet  on  the  stairs,  movements  heard  from  a 
distance.  Finally,  O' Sullivan  threw  the  doors  open. 
Two  women,  his  wife  and  daughter,  appeared  be- 
hind him,  carrying  lights  in  silver  sconces. 

"The  tower-room  is  ready,  sir,"  he  announced, 
with  a  tremble  in  his  voice. 

"I  will  show  her  ladyship  the  way,"  said  Philip, 
rising  and  taking  one  of  the  candles.  "Will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  follow  me?  Edmund,  you 
come  too." 


THE   GRAY  TOWER  29 

His  mother  cast  a  look  of  anguish  round  the 
room ;  but  she  rose,  undecided  whether  to  obey  or  to 
attempt  fresh  argument.  She  moved  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  window,  now  ablaze  with  moonlight. 
"Not  that  way,"  remarked  her  son,  coldly.  "You 
will  see  ypur  husband's  tomb  out  there.  I  am  giv- 
ing you  a  chamber  from  which  it  is  invisible." 

Edmund  said  to  himself,  "Why  does  she  not  die 
under  these  sarcasms?  Has  she  gone  through  so 
much  that  she  feels  it  no  longer?" 

For  the  first  time  he  pitied  this  faithless  woman. 
who  had  left  husband  and  son  in  obedience  to 
passion,  and  had  her  reward  thus.  He  was  more 
troubled  than  Philip,  now  leading  the  way  from 
these  modern  rooms,  fitted  up  in  the  solid  and  even 
majestic  style  of  the  later  eighteenth  century — Louis 
Seize  a  little  travestied — to  the  stern  old  keep  of 
Renmore. 

The  lights  wavered,  the  stairs  creaked;  Lady 
Liscarroll,  a  heavy  lace  shawl  drooping  round  her 
in  lugubrious  contrast  to  her  son's  crimson,  walked 
last  and  alone,  with  slow  steps,  as  one  that  means  to 
face  death  ceremoniously.  The  silence  was  almost 
unbroken.  From  dark  corners  a  bat  flew  across  the 
lights  now  and  again ;  there  was  a  sough  of  wind  in 
the  higher  parts  of  the  castle,  a  thud  as  of  mounting 
waves  against  its  walls.  The  steward's  gray-haired 


3o  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

wife  muttered  prayers  in  Gaelic;  Miles  himself 
would  have  done  as  much,  but  his  lips  refused  to  ar- 
ticulate, and  so  the  procession  moved  on. 

"This  is  your  room,"  said  Philip,  when  they  had 
all  but  reached  the  highest  landing,  as  he  entered  a 
low-ceiled  bedchamber.  "You  will  be  perfectly 
safe  here.  The  sea-gate  is  always  locked;  and  on 
the  side  of  the  house  I  shall  keep  the  keys.  Nora 
will  let  us  know  your  wishes.  Good-night,  Lady 
Liscarroll." 

He  bowed  and  was  going.  His  mother  caught 
him  by  the  hand  convulsively. 

"Woman,  you  are  scorching  me !"  cried  the  young 
man,  pulling  himself  away.  "Sleep,  if  your  con- 
science will  let  you;  better  if  it  kept  you  awake." 

"But  I  am  heart-broken,"  she  moaned ;  "will  you 
never  forgive  me,  Philip?" 

"Never,"  he  said;  "don't  think  it.     Good-night." 

The  others,  except  Nora,  had  not  entered  the 
High  Room,  as  it  was  called.  Philip  took  up  his 
light,  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  descended  the 
stairs,  last  of  the  company.  In  a  few  minutes  Lady 
Liscarroll  heard  the  lower  door  slam  and  the  key 
turn  in  its  rusty  lock.  Nora  was  crying  and  praying 
at  the  same  time.  But  her  mistress  uttered  no  prayer. 

"How  like  Sir  Walter  he  is !"  she  thought,  going 
to  the  embrasure,  in  which  she  could  stand  upright, 


THE    GRAY   TOWER  31 

while  she  looked  out  on  the  glittering  waters.  They 
were  tossing,  with  long  manes  of  white  foam  on 
them  and  dark  blue  gulfs  between,  at  an  immeasur- 
able depth  below.  Sign  of  life  there  was  none; 
neither  boat  nor  sail  in  any  direction.  A  prison  up 
in  the  air,  and  her  life  now  a  memory.  "1  must 
make  my  escape  from  Renmore,"  she  thought,  "as 
I  did  once  before.  But  there  's  no  Henry  now." 
Her  tears  fell  silently. 

She  stayed  watching  the  moon  and  the  waves  all 
that  night — the  captive  of  her  old  self — as  Edmund 
thought  of  her,  a  caged  eagle. 

"I  have  a  thing  to  ask,"  said  the  baronet  to  his 
cousin,  when  they  were  parting  on  the  stairs;  "you 
are  not  in  this  affair  at  all ;  but  if  I  should  be  down 
with  fever,  will  you  promise  to  keep  these  keys  until 
I  am  dead  or  myself  again?" 

"Where  shall  I  find  them?"  answered  Edmund, 
simply. 

"They  will  be  always  under  my  pillow." 

"There  is  my  hand,"  said  his  cousin.  "I  am  not 
satisfied  that  you  are  doing  what  you  ought :  you  are 
certainly  breaking  the  law ;  but  I  pledge  you  my 
word  the  tower  shall  not  be  opened  until  you  open  it 
yourself,  or  I  am  in  your  place." 

They  shook  hands  upon  that  agreement,  and  went 
their  ways  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

POET    AND    MAGICIAN 

THE  strand  -by  Renmore  is  a  long,  wide  reach 
of  silver  sand,  with  sea-weeds  golden-green 
scattered  over  it  like  strings  of  jewels,  about  which 
the  curlews  whistle  and  the  gulls  dash  in  from  the 
great  deep,  crying  like  ghosts.  There,  beside  the 
high  castellated  rocks  overgrown  with  a  fairy  forest, 
flecked  with  tiny  streamlets,  Edmund  was  pacing, 
meditative,  at  an  early  hour  next  morning.  He  had 
left  his  cousin  asleep,  the  tower  locked,  and  a  world 
of  sorrow  in  the  dark  house.  Now  his  heart  took  to 
itself  the  joy  of  these  purple  seas  and  the  sunshine 
that  filled  the  little  paradises  of  verdure,  which  not 
winter  itself  could  lay  quite  bare.  He  was  sad  and 
glad,  as  men  of  his  temperament  are  always.  The 
tragedy  of  last  night  went  through  him;  yet  he 
could  study  it  as  a  play,  and  judge  it  from  outside. 
How  would  it  end  ?  What  was  his  part  in  it  ?  The 
waves,  the  sunlight  must  teach  him  that,  like  so 
many  secret  things  they  had  revealed  before  to  him. 
So  he  walked  on  the  silver  sands,  meditating. 

32 


POET  AND    MAGICIAN  33 

He  had  not  been  there  long  when  a  light,  irregular 
step,  crunching  the  fine  dust,  drew  on  behind  him 
and  made  him  turn. 

"Ah,  Cathal,  what  brings  you  this  way  ?"  he  cried 
cheerily ;  "you  seldom  leave  your  print  on  the  sands." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  the  newcomer,  with  a  laugh, 
"  't  is  on  the  memories  or  the  shoulders  of  the  boys 
of  Renmore  I  am  marking  those  hieroglyphics.  But 
Saturday  is  a  day  of  rest  for  my  head  and  my  arm. 
I  lave,  as  the  poet  says,  the  impious  sons  of  maledic- 
tion to  their  groveling  propensities,  and  I  'm  walk- 
ing in  the  air,  contemplating  the  sun,  like  my  ould 
friend  Socrates,  the  son  of  Sophroniscus,  in  the 
comedy." 

"You  will  be  the  better  for  it,"  said  Edmund. 
"Do  I  disturb  your  contemplations,  or  shall  we  walk 
together?" 

"Two  against  Hercules,  says  the  proverb,  Mr. 
Edmund.  But  what's  on  you,  sir?  I  would  say 
you  were  after  having  a  heavy  drame." 

"What  sharp  eyes  you  have,  O'Dwyer,"  said 
young  Liscarroll ;  but  it  is  no  dream,  I  fear." 

The  schoolmaster  did  not  care  to  question  him, 
and  they  went  a  little  way  in  silence.  If  Edmund, 
with  his  slight  figure,  dark  hair,  and  dark  eyes,  was 
the  refined  and  almost  Byronic  version  of  the  Irish 
poet,  Cathal  O'Dwyer  was  the  humorous,  the 

3 


34  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

Rabelaisian,  the  Gargantuesque.  Tall  and  wiry,  in 
his  faded  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons,  in  his  knee- 
breeches  and  gray  stockings,  he  threw  into  his  walk 
a  dancing  air,  subdued  but  elastic — he  was  one  of  the 
best  dancers  in  the  country — and  his  long,  sallow 
features,  irregular  enough,  though  not  vulgar,  had 
a  constant  trick  of  seeming  to  smile  when  he  was 
most  serious.  He  moved  with  a  spring,  quoted  by 
the  yard,  was  merry,  and  not  always  wise,  but  even 
in  his  cups  an  admirable  Greek  and  Latin  scholar. 
Nor  had  he  a  friend  closer  to  his  heart  than  young 
Edmund  Liscarroll.  His  gray  eyes  twinkled  now 
with  fun  and  curiosity. 

"Well,  my  dear  poet,"  he  began,  "if  you  did  n't 
drame  last  night,  I  did.  And  a  quare  drame  it  was. 
Would  you  listen  to  me  telling  it?" 

"Why  not  ?     It  will  while  away  the  time." 

"As  the  Fenian  heroes  did  with  story-telling — one 
part  of  the  night  in  ould  tales,  one  part  in  singing 
to  the  harp,  and  the  rest  in  the  sweetness  of  sleep 
and  slumber.  But  this  drame  I  dreamt  a  second 
time ;  indeed,  I  could  never  forget  it.  'T  was  about 
your  uncle,  Sir  Walter — God  rest  him,  poor  man !" 

"Last  night  you  dreamt  of  Sir  Walter?  What 
put  that  into  your  learned  head?" 

"Erudition,  sir,  is  not  soothsaying;  that  's  more 
than  I  could  tell  you,  or  you  me.  The  drame  I 
dreamt  twice  was,  compendiously,  the  following.  I 


POET  AND   MAGICIAN  35 

thought  in  my  sleep  Sir  Walter  came  to  me,  in  his 
ould  scarlet  hunting  shuit,  but — he  was  dead ;  I  knew 
him  to  be  departed;  and  he  muttered  and  mumbled, 
for  the  teeth  were  out  of  his  jaws,  talking  Irish  or 
English  (bad  luck  to  his  English — 't  was  that  ruined 
him!)  till  I  lost  patience  with  the  man  entirely. 
'Come  hither,  then/  says  he,  in  a  pet,  'and  you  '11 
see  what  I  mane.'  My  dear  Mr.  Edmund,  with 
Jihat  I  was  standing  by  his  grave,  and  it  gaping  like  a 
whale's  mouth — I  'm  telling  you  no  lie — and  says  he, 
pointing  to  it  with  a  bony  finger,  'When  I  go  back 
into  that,  another  tenant  will  be  sharing  it.'  In  the 
deep  sleep  that  was  on  me,  I  trembled,  and  said  I,  as 
well  as  I  could  in  my  fright,  'What  other,  Sir 
Walter?'  Once  more  he  began  to  mutter  and 
mumble — by  times  I  could  give  a  guess  at  the  name, 
and,  high  over !  't  was  gone  from  me.  I  thought  to 
myself  he  said  this  or  that — but,"  checking  his  reci- 
tation, and  speaking  more  seriously,  "no  matter; 
does  n't  Father  Falvey  tell  us  we  're  a  parcel  of  ould 
women  to  be  minding  drames  and  pishogues?  Let 
his  Reverence  make  out  the  rest  of  it.  However,  as 
I  'm  an  approved  man  of  'veracity,  that  was  my 
drame." 

"Sir  Walter  might  well  have  been  out  of  his  grave 
last  night,"  said  Edmund,  bitterly.  "I  wish  to  God 
his  wife  was  in  it." 

"His  wife — the  lovely,  wicked  woman  that  ran 


36  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

from  him,  as  my  Sheila  ran  from  me  ?     Is  n't  she  in 
her  own  grave  this  day?" 

"She  is  not,  Cathal.  You  got  one  piece  of  news 
in  your  sleep;  did  you  hear  no  other  waking?" 

Cathal  shook  his  head.  "I  was  n't  out  in  the 
hanging  mist  after  sundown ;  and  none  of  the  neigh- 
bors came  in.  Joan,  good  girl,  spares  the  rush 
candles  on  us  and  the  sod  of  turf ;  we  go  early  to  bed 
often.  T  is  n't  like  ould  times  whin  we  'd  sit  up  half 
the  night  telling  stories.  So  Lady  Eleanor  is  n't 
dead  yet?" 

"You  may  as  well  let  it  be  known,  Cathal,  that  my 
aunt  is  at  Renmore  House.  Say  you  had  it  from 
me;  if  the  country  must  talk,  let  it  talk." 

The  schoolmaster  gave  a  spring  on  hearing  this 
intelligence.  It  stirred  him  mightily,  but  he  had 
sense  enough  to  perceive  that  Edmund  was  deeply 
moved  by  the  sudden  resurrection  of  a  story  which, 
in  its  time,  had  set  tongues  wagging  thirty  miles 
round.  As  they  paused  on  the  edge  of  the  green 
waves,  he  soliloquized  after  his  peculiar  fashion. 

"So  there  's  my  drame!  'T  was  his  wife  Sir 
Walter  was  dooming,  and  well  it  became  him.  Ah, 
Mr.  Edmund,  my  curse  upon  every  woman  but  my 
poor  fool  of  a  Joan — however,  she  's  young  yet — 
and  my  malediction  upon  love  and  them  that  gave 
it  to  us.  Would  I  like  Sheila  to  come  home  on  me, 


POET   AND    MAGICIAN  37 

after  she  giving  the  back  of  her  hand  to  me  and  the 
poor  child  ?  I  don't  think  I  would,  but  men  are  soft 
and  women  hard,  and  that 's  the  way  it  is.  And  did 
Sir  Phil  take  it  kindly?" 

"A  bad  mother  is  more  shame  to  a  man  than  a  bad 
wife,"  said  Edmund,  scooping  up  the  dry  sand, 
which  he  flung  into  the  waves  as  they  came  dancing 
before  his  feet. 

"True  for  you,  sir.  'T  is  a  pity  he  could  n't  bind 
her  in  bonds  till  the  life  was  but  of  her.  But  how 
tough  they  are — the  vipers !  I  '11  engage  Lady  Elea- 
nor has  as  fine  a  blush  on  her  as  the  day  she  first 
came  to  Renmore." 

"On  her  cheek  she  has,"  said  Edmund,  laughing 
scornfully.  "Do  you  think  it  goes  deeper?" 

"Maybe  not.  We  used  to  call  her  the  Beautiful 
Witch.  Every  one  of  us  would  dance  to  that 
woman's  music,  I  tell  you,  like  a  pack  o'  seals  after 
a  fiddler." 

"Even  you,  the  White  Wizard,"  laughed  Edmund 
again.  "More  shame  for  you,  O'Dwyer!  But  if 
the  world  ran  after  her,  why  did  she  break  loose? 
I  was  a  lad  of  ten  or  eleven  at  the  time,  and  got  no 
hint  of  the  story,  but  I  whistled  and  sang  on  my  own 
account  when  she  flew  across  the  sea  to  France." 

"Indeed,  you  were  no  favorite  with  your  aunt," 
said  Cathal ;  "we  all  knew  that.  The  people  used  to 


38  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

be  saying  she  never  forgave  her  husband  for  laving 
the  estate  to  you  after  Mr.  Philip,  instead  of  her  own 
relations." 

"Yes,  she  hated  me,  and  I  gave  her  as  good  as  I 
got.  We  were  always  falling  out;  sometimes  she 
would  try  to  make  it  up  again  and  put  little  presents 
in  my  room,  and  I  broke  them  and  flung  the  pieces 
out  of  the  window.  Whatever  she  did,  my  aunt  was 
to  me  just  a  fair-faced,  poison-brewing  hag.  Not 
like  you — a  harmless,  necessary  wizard." 

"Harmless?  You  may  say  that,"  cried  the  other, 
lifting  his  conical  hat  skyward.  "What  harm  would 
the  like  of  me  do  to  man  or  baste?  If  I  do  be 
skilled  in  a  few  useful  incantations,  or  take  a  cut  o' 
the  cards  once  in  a  while,  't  is  to  assist  the  poor  peo- 
ple I  do  it.  Sure,  I  never  give  a  cast  of  my  art  save 
and  except  when  Dr.  Driscoll's  medicines  would  do 
them  no  more  benefit  than  ditch-water.  And  that  's 
often,  God  knows,"  he  said,  with  a  satirical  laugh. 
"But  you  have  a  right  to  call  Lady  Eleanor  a  hag. 
Troth,  she  was  a  valiant  and  formidable  beldame — 
the  divil's  cure  to  her,  saving  your  presence." 

"Put  as  many  curses  on  her  as  you  will  find  in  the 
Black  Book  of  Moling,"  said  her  nephew,  heartily. 
"She  will  be  a  match  for  them  all.  But  tell  me. 
Cathal,  did  you  hear,  or  do  you  know,  the  ins  and 
outs  of  this  bad  business  at  the  time  ?" 


POET  AND    MAGICIAN  39 

"Did  I  hear  ?"  echoed  the  wizard,  pausing  before  a 
miniature  cave  in  the  limestone,  wreathed  about  in 
withered  Virginia  creeper  and  made  beautiful  by  a 
sheet  of  falling  foam  that  met  the  tide  and  danced 
upon  it.  "I  believe  nothing  that  I  hear,  and  but  the 
half  of  what  I -see,  Mr.  Edmund.  However,  I  made 
a  tale  of  it,  aisy  enough,  to  myself." 

"You  thought—?" 

"I  thought  young  Lifford  had  good  looks,  and 
Lady  Eleanor  had  good  eyesight,  and  't  was 
Diarmuid  and  Grainne  the  second  time  with 
them." 

"That  is  simple.  But  why  did  n't  my  uncle  chase 
them  till  they  were  caught?  Was  Sir  Walter  only 
a  white-livered  cur,  after  all?" 

"He  was  not,  sir,"  answered  Cathal,  flaring  up 
suddenly.  "Am  I  white-livered?  Yet  I  did  the 
same  thing.  Or  less,  for  your  uncle  hunted  high 
and  low  to  come  at  the  captain.  I  could  tell  you  the 
way  it  was  from  myself." 

Edmund  let  the  old  man  recover  his  exhausted 
breath  in  silence.  O'Dwyer  caught  some  of  the 
sparkling  water  and  put  it  to  his  lips;  then,  not 
without  an  effort,  he  continued:  "God  forbid  you 
should  ever  have  the  knowledge  of  these  things  ex- 
perimentally, my  dear  young  friend;  but  as  a  poet 
you  could  go  deep  into  them.  Why  was  n't  I  hunt- 


40  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

ing  down  Sheila  when  she  flew  out  upon  the  wind? 
Tell  me  that  if  you  can  ?" 

"You  let  the  hawk  go  with  her  jesses — to  feed  on 
carrion,"  said  Edmund. 

"I  did — and  I  did  n't.  No,  sir,  I  was  broke,  and 
mad,  and  sick  at  the  tidings.  My  blood  ran  red  hot, 
and  thin  was  ice  and  snow  inside  me.  If  I  caught 
her  that  day,  by  the  great  God  in  heaven,  I  'd  be 
pounding  her  bones  till  they  were  a  paste,  as  you  'd 
pound  them  in  a  mortar;  I  'd  make  a  corpse  of  the 
woman.  And,  after  that,  she  'd  be  lying  dead  there, 
laughing  at  me.  Who  would  get  the  upper  hand 
thin,  I  ask  you?" 

"That 's  a  fine  bit  of  soul-history,"  said  Edmund. 
"You  remember  the  man  that  drowned  his  wife  in  a 
bog-hole? — but  still  she  had  the  last  word.  You 
did  n't  want  to  be  a  second  volume  of  that  helpless 
omadanf" 

"You  have  it  now,  sir.  Maybe  I  was  obnoxious 
to  reproach,  but  if  you  blame  me  as  a  fool,  don't 
blame  me  as  a  coward.  Sir  Walter  had  no  manes 
of  striking  Lifford,  for  he  was  gone  out  of  sight. 
Would  he  purshue  Lady  Eleanor  till  he  brought  her 
down?  till  he  choked  and  drowned  her — she  screech- 
ing victory  out  of  the  bog-hole?  There  it  is  all  for 
you." 


POET  AND   MAGICIAN  41 

"He  should  never  have  married  her,"  said  the 
young  man. 

Cathal  showed  his  yellow  teeth  pleasantly.  "Take 
my  word  for  it,  't  was  she  married  him.  A  great 
catch  he  was  for  Miss  Ashby,  with  his  ould  Irish 
name,  and  his  castle  and  his  lands — to  say  nothing 
of  his  handsome  face.  I  '11  pawn  my  life  she  put  the 
banns  in  herself." 

"No,  no,  you  're  taking  the  wrong  end  of  the 
story,"  said  Edmund,  laughing  but  provoked. 
"Leave  my  uncle  the  credit  of  his  infatuation.  I 
grant  you  Lady  Liscarroll  twisted  him  round  her 
little  ringer  when  they  were  man  and  wife.  The 
Liscarrolls  had  always  a  terrible  power  of  falling 
in  love." 

"Will  Miss  O'Connor  be  saying  as  much  on  Tues- 
day, I  wonder,"  remarked  O'Dwyer,  plucking  an 
ivy-leaf  from  the  face  of  the  rock  and  chewing  it. 

His  companion  flushed  up  to  the  eyes,  and  his 
under  lip  quivered.  "Is  the  Lady  of  Silverwood 
coming  over  on  Tuesday  as  she  promised?"  he  said, 
with  a  stammer,  affecting  to  watch  the  sea-mews 
turning  in  the  sunlight. 

"To  my  hedge-school  ?  She  will  that,  if  the  rain 
keeps  up  in  the  sky.  And  you,  Mr.  Edmund  ?  But 
you  would  n't  miss  it  for  a  thousand  pounds.  So 


42  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

you  lave  the  mocking  word  on  your  family?  They 
are  under  bonds  to  Cupid  ?  He  's  cruel  and  sweet, 
and  his  hands  raich  down  to  hell,  says  the  Greek 
poet.  Go  home,  sir,  and  construe  those  lines ;  then 
pity  Sir  Walter,  anyhow." 

"It  is  an  idyl  of  Moschus;  I  remember,"  said  the 
youth — he  was  barely  one-and-twenty — still  blush- 
ing. "We  will  try  how  it  rings  in  Irish  some  of 
these  days.  All  I  say  now  is  that  if  my  uncle  had 
not  been  under  a  spell,  he  never  would  have  brought 
an  English  girl,  a  Protestant,  London-bred,  and  ten 
years  younger  than  himself,  home  to  Renmore. 
Hallo!"  breaking  off  with  a  start,  "who  conies 
here?" 

"  'T  is  the  steward,  Mr.  O'Sullivan,"  said  Cathal ; 
"he  will  be  wanting  you,  and  I  bid  you  good-morn- 
ing. Don't  mind  me,  sir ;  there  's  a  goat-path  along 
the  rocks  I  used  to  scramble  upon  when  a  gossoon. 
Till  Tuesday — and  Miss  O'Connor!" 

He  began  climbing,  with  no  contemptible  agility 
— as  he  would  have  said  himself — for  a  man  of  his 
years,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight  and  call. 

"What  is  it,  Miles?"  asked  Edmund,  in  grave 
disquiet.  "Were  you  looking  for  me?" 

"I  was,  sir,"  answered  the  steward.  "Plaise  come 
up  to  the  house  at  once.  Sir  Phil  is  very  quare. 
He  did  n't  rise  this  morning ;  and  I  think  the  fever 


POET   AND    MAGICIAN  43 

is  on  him;  he  does  n't  appear  to  know  any  person 
about  his  bed." 

"You  have  not  told  Lady  Liscarroll?"  said  the 
other,  his  trouble  increasing. 

"I  waited  till  you  saw  the  master,"  said  O'Sulli- 
van.  "If  he  was  dying,  she  must  know  it,  surely." 

They  almost  ran  in  their  eagerness  to  get  to  the 
castle. 


CHAPTER  V 
ON  RUMOR'S  WINGS 

THE  wings  of  a  scall-crow  seemed  to  beat  upon 
Edmund's  temples  when  he  passed  into  the 
great  and  stately  chamber  in  which  Philip  was  lying. 
It  had  been  kept  dark ;  he  now  let  the  sunshine  pour 
in  upon  his  cousin's  bed,  hoping  it  might  kindle  some 
touch  of  life  inside  the  brain.  But  to  no  purpose. 
The  features,  suffused  and  heavy,  gave  threatenings 
of  a  paralytic  stroke ;  the  eyes  were  closed  and  would 
not  open.  O' Sullivan  had  roused  his  master  several 
times,  only  to  be  fixed  by  a  glance  without  meaning, 
and  to  hear  inarticulate  words  that  died  in  the  throat. 
No  repugnance,  such  as  Edmund  felt  to  calling  in 
Dr.  Driscoll — which  was  opening  the  doors,  he 
argued,  to  Mrs.  Driscoll — could  avail  in  a  moment 
so  fraught  with  consequences.  The  doctor  must 
come  at  once. 

He  was  already  on  the  road;  so  much  O' Sullivan 
had  ventured.  Edmund  saw  him  into  the  room  on 
his  arrival,  and  helped  him,  with  a  sickening  heart, 
through  the  operations  that  followed.  He  bled  his 

44 


ON   RUMOR'S  WINGS  45 

patient  copiously;  it  was  the  one  thing  needful  and 
sufficient  in  the  doctor's  day,  whatever  the  occasion ; 
and,  right  or  wrong,  it  had  its  effect  on  Sir  Philip. 
When  next  he  opened  his  great  hazel  eyes,  he  recog- 
nized his  cousin,  and  was  able  to  speak,  faintly  but 
with  understanding. 

"I  have  brought  you  over  the  fence  in  fine  style," 
said  Dr.  Driscoll,  with  his  slightly  rasping  accents, 
turning  to  wash  his  large  hands.  He  was  an  ill- 
made  man,  tall  but  lean,  and  somehow  crooked — 
you  could  hardly  say  where — with  a  rather  deformed 
nose,  which  had  suffered  in  an  ancient  quarrel  with 
friends  or  flagstones,  and  bushy  gray  eyebrows  over 
cavernous  eyes.  An  ill-dressed  man,  too,  smelling 
of  whisky  and  stale  tobacco.  Last  night  he  had 
been  sent  away  from  the  castle,  as  he  told  his  Eng- 
lish wife,  "with  a  flea  in  his  ear" ;  it  was  no  modesty 
that  now  held  him  back  from  dancing  on  the  bed- 
room floor;  nothing  but  a  remnant  of  professional 
decorum,  not  utterly  worn  to  rags  in  his  five-and- 
twenty  years'  campaign  as  a  country  doctor.  He 
had  a  heart  by  proxy — the  tender  heart  of  his  call- 
ing; otherwise,  he  did  but  know  that  organ,  said 
Cathal  O'Dwyer,  "anatomically,  as  a  muscle,  and 
financially,  as  a  source  of  revenue."  The  interpre- 
tation might  be  that  when  he  married  Sarah  North 
she  put  her  savings  into  his  business.  He  treated 


46  THE   WIZARD'S    KNOT 

his  patients  like  a  gentleman  as  long  as  they  were 
ill ;  but  the  rest  of  mankind,  and  these  after  recovery, 
seemed  to  him — again  borrowing  from  the  school- 
master— "gross  of  appetite,  crafty,  and  full  of 
malice."  And  said  Cathal,  "How  quare  a  thing  it 
is  that  we  do  be  taking  the  world  for  a  cracked  six- 
penny glass  to  our  own  coarse  faitures!  'T  is  his 
reflection  the  doctor  sees  and  spreads  it  out."  With 
O'Dwyer  the  medicine-man  had  long  waged  a  war 
of  epigrams;  but  when,  on  hearing  this  account  of 
himself,  he  said  blandly  to  Orbilius — another  name 
for  the  wizard  among  his  grown-up  scholars — "I 
fear,  sir,  you  are  losing  your  olden  adjectival  might," 
it  was  felt  that  victory  hovered  doubtful  on  each 
helm.  Driscoll  had  a  tongue  as  keen  as  his  best 
lancet,  and  was  a  famous  hand  at  drawing  blood 
with  either. 

But  his  "craft  and  malice"  now  seemed  to  com- 
mand a  splendid  scope.  "Yes,  Mr.  Edmund,"  he 
said,  with  a  consequential  air,  "the  baronet  is  in  for  a 
stiff  run,  though  he  's  over  the  first  fence.  He  will 
not  be  himself  again  yet.  And  he  '11  want  good 
nursing.  I  '11  send  up  Mrs.  Driscoll ;  she  knows  him 
from  his  childhood,  though  I  '11  be  missing  her  sadly 
at  home.  But,  indeed,  I  have  a  congratulatory  mes- 
sage from  her  to  Lady  Liscarroll,  if  I  might  see  her 
ladyship  one  moment." 


ON   RUMOR'S  WINGS  47 

This  conversation  took  place  in  the  drawing-room, 
which  had  been  fenced  off  from  the  older  hall,  and 
had  windows  opening  on  the  lawn. 

"I  will  convey  your  wife's  good  wishes  to  my 
aunt,"  said  Edmund,  keeping  down  his  voice;  "you 
will  not  be  surprised  if  she  sees  no  visitors  at  pres- 
ent. As  for  the  nursing,  I  have  a  plan  which  will 
not  deprive  you  of  Mrs.  Driscoll's  society.  The 
steward's  wife  was  a  kind  of  foster-mother  to  him, 
you  know.  She  will  attend  on  Sir  Philip." 

The  doctor  hummed  and  hawed.  "I  would  have 
liked  my  own  nurse  in  so  complicated  a  case,"  he 
said.  "The  ould  woman  is  good  enough  to  mind 
a  baby;  but  here  is  brain  fever  disclosing  itself. 
Mrs.  Driscoll  knows  the  pharmacopoeia  almost  as 
consummately  as  myself." 

"Then  she  can  help  us  by  mixing  the  medicines," 
said  Edmund,  gravely. 

"And  she  is  not — it  would  be  no  use  for  her  to 
call  on  her  ould  mistress  that  was  so  kind  to  her?" 
asked  the  doctor. 

"Not  for  a  while,"  said  young  Liscarroll,  rising 
to  cut  short  the  argument. 

"By  my  hand,  sir,"  answered  Driscoll,  angry  but 
smiling,  "they  may  well  call  you  the  Tanist — no 
offense  meant — but  I  'd  be  calling  you  Renmore  it- 
self. 'T  is  you  that 's  in  the  saddle." 


48  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

He  had  neither  opened  the  door  nor  got  the  key  to 
this  incident;  and  it  ruffled  all  his  feathers.  What 
had  overtaken  Lady  Liscarroll  ?  She  was  to  be  kept 
out  of  sight,  clearly.  Well  and  good;  Mrs.  Dris- 
coll's  tongue  was  as  sharp  as  his  own ;  and  before  the 
day  had  run  out  it  would  set  the  neighborhood  talk- 
ing. The  doctor  despised  Philip  as  an  ill-bred, 
high-nosed  English  churl  that  never  had  a  word 
for  him  and  passed  by  his  wife  without  seeing  her. 
They  were  enemies  by  instinct  and  by  fate,  doomed 
to  live  in  one  village,  like  rats  in  an  egg-box.  Dr. 
Driscoll's  fancy  flew  near  the  ground;  of  this  kind 
were  his  metaphors.  He  could  not  deny  that  Ed- 
mund was  what  the  people  thought  him — a  lad  of 
genius  that  might  have  been  inspired  by  that  most 
gifted  and  terrible  among  the  fairy-folk — the  Lean- 
nan  Sidhe.  But  while  he  rather  dreaded  the  poet, 
he  had  nothing  but  contempt  for  the  "Sassenach 
spawn,"  who  never  opened  his  mouth  in  public,  and 
seldom  in  private — who  was  a  sportsman  in  the 
hunting  field,  but  never  invited  company  to  his 
castle.  If  he  got  now  the  red  wound  of  death," 
muttered  the  doctor,  driving  away,  "I  would  n't  shed 
a  tear,  unless  to  see  Edmund  in  the  stirrups — short- 
ness of  life  and  hell  to  the  two  of  them !  But  we  '11 
get  a  grip  on  the  son  yet,  by  manes  of  the  mother, 
or  Sarah  is  more  fool  than  the  day  I  bought  her." 


ON    RUMOR'S   WINGS  49 

Such  a  venomous  fire,  as  they  say  in  those  parts, 
had  Lady  Liscarroll  set  alight  by  her  early  and  her 
late  coming  to  Renmore.  It  was  soon  blazing 
merrily.  The  neighbors  had  her  name  in  all  their 
mouths  by  nightfall — with  questions  which  no  man, 
no  woman  even,  could  answer,  and  the  mystery  flam- 
ing high  over  shore  and  mountain.  When  did  she 
come?  Was  it  true  that  Lifford  killed  himself? 
Did  the  sight  of  his  mother  meeting  Sir  Philip  on 
horseback  strike  him  out  of  the  saddle  ?  And  where 
was  she  this  night?  Every  cabin  along  the  village 
street  felt  the  warmer  for  these  sparks  and  splinters 
of  a  magic  blaze,  kindled  discreetly,  diabolically,  by 
thin-lipped  Sarah  North.  The  old  people  that  re- 
membered Sir  Walter's  wedding  with  beautiful  Miss 
Ashby  loomed  upon  younger  imaginations  like  sibyls 
or  scalds,  as  they  crowded  round  the  purple-flaming 
turf  and  told  their  legendary  tale. 

The  baronet,  too,  was  at  death's  door;  at  the  last 
gasp;  dying  without  priest  or  minister;  for  was  n't 
he  christened  a  Catholic  and  reared  a  Protestant? 
And  did  he  ever  darken  chapel  or  church  since  he 
came  home,  three  years  ago,  from  college  in  Eng- 
land? So  portentous  a  spectacle,  of  the  son  killed 
by  a  flash  from  the  mother's  eye — and  she  long-  since 
in  the  power  of  Satan — made  their  hearts  burn 
strangely.  For  the  world  not  one  of  them  would 

4 


5o  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

have  "faced  out"  to  the  big  house  that  night  after 
dark.  Yet  they  had  it  always  before  their  eyes 
while  they  spoke  of  the  dreary,  frightening,  excit- 
able old  times,  which  had  all  at  once  come  to  life 
again.  The  very  house  was  alive  and  acted  in  the 
story.  It  was  an  enchanted  cave,  the  village  clus- 
tering round  its  horrible  mouth,  peering  into  the  red 
fire  that  leaped  out  of  it  at  whiles. 

Sir  Philip,  however,  was  not  dying  or  dead — "but 
worse,"  as  his  cousin  said  in  the  inimitable  Irish 
way — he  was  "the  suffering  dream  of  a  man"  while 
the  fever  struck  inward.  He  did  not  rave;  his 
mind  peered  questioningly  out  of  his  tired  eyes; 
some  dull  thought  was  consuming  his  flesh  until,  as 
he  lay  there  under  the  great  tester  of  a  bed,  he 
seemed  to  Nora  O'Sullivan  "a  sketch  of  bones,"  or. 
in  Cathal's  phrase,  "a  bare  anatomy."  O'Dwyer, 
strange  to  relate,  was  to  be  often  now  at  the  big 
house,  by  a  right  of  entry  such  as  Edmund  still  re- 
fused to  Mrs.  Driscoll.  How  would  this  come  to 
pass  ?  Simply  but  fatefully,  as  the  road  of  life  turns 
and  we  follow  it — because  there  is  no  other — 
through  rough  and  smooth,  over  steep  and  hollow, 
not  guessing  what  is  before  us.  It  was  Edmund's 
little  plan  of  keeping  out  the  doctor's  wife  that 
brought  in  the  wizard. 

Driscoll  had  gone,   all   tongues   and   wings,   as 


ON   RUMOR'S  WINGS  51 

Rumor  is  painted,  to  spread  his  looking-glass  libel 
on  this  proud  old  family  far  and  wide;  and  the 
young  cousin  must  act  for  them,  taking  no  man's 
counsel  but  his  own.  He  unlocked  the  tower,  sent 
Nora,  the  steward's  wife,  to  wait  on  her  foster-son, 
and  presented  himself  in  Lady  Liscarroll's  room. 
She  had  not  slept,  her  glazed  eyes  showed  it ;  but  the 
hot  coals  of  passion  would  speedily  kindle  them. 
No  longer  the  woman  of  last  night,  trapped  and  half 
subdued,  but  armed  at  all  points  and  looking  as 
fierce  and  high  as  Queen  Meave. 

"You  come  from  Philip,"  she  cried,  with  some 
haughtiness,  holding  out  her  hand,  which  the  young 
man  touched  slightly.  "Is  he  ashamed  of  himself?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Edmund,  "neither  do  I  come 
from  him.  /  hold  the  keys  of  the  tower." 

She  made  him  a  sweeping  curtsey.  "You  will  be 
my  kind  jailer,"  she  said.  "Allow  me  an  inter- 
view with  my  son.  I  have  much  to  say  to  him." 

"You  cannot  say  it  now.  Sir  Philip  is  ill ;  he  may 
be  dying." 

"Then  you  are  master  here,"  she  said  in  a  beaten 
voice.  "Have  I  come  a  day  too  late?"  The  glazed 
eyes  grew  dimmer,  a  tear  fell  as  she  spoke. 

Her  nephew  marked  with  astonishment  and  a 
thrill  of  dislike  that  she  passed  over  Philip's  dying 
to  reflect  on  her  own  bad  fortune.  A  woman  of  this 


52 


THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 


make  was  quite  new  to  him.  But  while  he  stood 
silent  in  extreme  fury,  she  recovered  her  natural — 
or  was  it  her  artificial  ? — attitude. 

"Is  Philip  in  such  danger,  and  I  not  at  his  bed- 
side? My  dear  Edmund,  let  me  go  to  him;  you 
came  to  tell  me,  to  break  the  news — I  never  said  you 
were  hard-hearted.  When  we  quarreled  worst,  I 
never  did.  Where  is  Nora?  We  will  go  down 
together." 

She  was  at  the  door,  but  Edmund  stood  in  her 
way,  immovable.  "I  am  not  master — yet — "  he 
said  significantly.  "The  master  has  made  me  his 
lieutenant.  Lady  Liscarroll,  you  are  not  to  go 
down.  Nora  is  with  Sir  Philip.  The  tower 
entrance  is  locked."  He  held  the  great  iron  key  in 
his  hand. 

The  lady  sat  down,  despairing.  "What  a  fine 
gentleman  you  are!" — she  threw  a  torrent  of  spite 
into  her  accent.  "Is  this  how  you  take  your  revenge  ? 
Was  it  a  crime  in  me  to  choose  my  kith  and  kin  to 
succeed  here — before  such  a  Liscarroll  as  you?  If 
it  was,  I  glory  in  it." 

"I  cannot  argue  that  question,"  said  her  nephew; 
"at  present  I  execute  Sir  Philip's  orders.  Why  did 
you  break  into  the  lion's  den  ?  You  should  have  had 
a  taste  of  the  Liscarroll  temper,  enough  to  warn  you 
that  they  don't  trifle.  What  tempted  you  back?" 


ON   RUMOR'S  WINGS  53 

"Sit  down,  Edmund,"  she  replied  eagerly;  "take 
that  chair  and  we  will  talk  about  the  Liscarroll 
temper.  You  have  it,  too;  but  with  a  difference. 
I  can  explain  my  sad  story  to  you." 

He  shook  his  dark  ringlets,  that  gave  almost  a 
feminine  air  to  the  thoughtful,  passionate  features. 
"It  is  soon  told,  and  can  never  be  explained,"  he 
said,  yielding  so  far  as  to  sit  down.  "You  are  one 
of  the  evil  women  that  blot  the  sun  out  of  our  sky. 
You  had  a  husband — a  child — you  left  them.  What 
more?" 

"Oh,  but  my  husband  had  a  wife,"  she  said  ve- 
hemently. "Did  he  keep  his  part  of  the  bargain?" 

"Sir  Walter  ?  Why,  there  never  was  the  shadow 
of  a  stain  on  his  life,"  answered  Edmund.  "What 
scoundrel  has  belied  him?" 

"I  say  he  broke  the  promises  on  which  I  married 
him.  He  did  for  twelve  years  what  my  son  and  you 
are  doing  to  me  now.  He  kept  me  a  prisoner  in 
this  tower." 

"It  was  your  home;  where  else  should  a  wife  be 
but  with  her  husband?" 

"I  accepted  Walter  Liscarroll  from  ambition. 
Yes — make  the  most  of  it — from  ambition. 
He  had  the  world  at  his  feet.  I  thought  he  would 
be  one  of  the  first  Catholics  in  Parliament,  and  a 
leader  of  men,  and  that  I  should  have  a  place  by  his 


S4  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

side.  We  were  married.  In  eighteen  months  all 
was  over.  He  fell  out  with  O'Connell  and  gave  up 
his  interest  in  public  affairs.  He  forced  me  to  leave 
London.  We  exchanged  the  best  society  in  the 
world  for  hunting  squires  and  their  wives;  or  else 
we  had  no  company  at  all.  I  married  one  man ;  Sir 
Walter  turned  out  to  be  another." 

"You  took  a  poet  for  a  politician.  Your  am- 
bition fell  below  my  uncle's." 

"I  was  his  widow,"  she  exclaimed,  pressing  a 
white  hand  on  her  heart.  "His  widow!  What 
comfort  had  I  in  his  poems  which  he  never  published, 
or  in  his  long  days  of  silence?  He  neglected  me. 
Whether  for  some  one  else,  or  for  his  tags  and  his 
musings,  what  did  I  care?  The  man  should  never 
have  had  a  wife." 

There  was  undeniable  truth  in  it;  Edmund  re- 
called the  abstruse,  sauntering,  silent  man,  full  of 
his  fancies,  who  was  looking  for  rhymes  as  he  rode 
to  hounds,  or  spent  mornings  and  afternoons  "under 
the  woods  so  green" — an  exquisite  Irish  phrase  that 
delighted  him — when  he  was  not  down  on  the 
strand,  watching  the  seals  at  play.  A  musing,  mel- 
ancholy singer  of  old  songs,  Art  the  Lonely  come 
again  in  the  guise  of  a  Munster  gentleman — marked 
for  solitude — of  that  singular,  incomprehensible  race 
which  in  Ireland  from  time  out  of  mind  has  peopled 


ON   RUMOR'S  WINGS  55 

the  wild  places  with  monks  like  St.  Kevin  of  Glen- 
dalough.  What  Saxon-bred  man  or  maid  could  un- 
ravel their  mystery?  Edmund  looked  with  com- 
passion at  the  lady  now. 

"If  you  had  an  angel  for  your  husband,  I  sup- 
pose," he  said,  smiling,  "you  would  n't  stay  long 
with  him?" 

"Angels  have  no  business  to  be  married,"  was  the 
sharp  reply.  "Sir  Walter  did  not  call  himself  an 
angel  when  we  first  met  in  London." 

"I  believe  he  was  always  the  same,"  answered 
Edmund;  "he  only  dabbled  in  politics.  Lady  Lis- 
carroll,  you  should  have  known — but  how  were  you 
to  know? — that  every  real  Irishman  is  at  heart  a 
monk." 

She  went  to  the  window  impatiently  and  looked 
long  at  the  great  waters,  still  as  sunshine,  and  as 
bright.  "Oh,  if  I  were  on  a  skiff  out  there,  I  would 
soon  leave  your  monks,"  she  said,  without  turning. 
"It  was  a  night  like  this  day  for  clearness  when  I 
ran,  the  white  sails  over  me,  to  France.  You  are 
right,  Edmund.  Monks  were  always  my  abhor- 
rence. I  sent  Philip  to  Eton,  in  the  hope  he  would 
grow  up  as  unlike  his  father  as  possible — an  English 
gentleman — a  Protestant — I  hate  your  strange  re- 
ligion." 

"But  he  is  not  a  Protestant — he  is  nothing — and 


56  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

all  his  father's  moods  and  tempers  descend  on  him 
at  times,  though  he  could  n't  scan  a  verse  to  save 
his  life.  What  have  you  gained  by  your  step- 
mother's policy?" 

"Not  much,"  she  answered.  There  was  an  in- 
tense silence,  into  which  the  endless  murmur  of  the 
sea  came  plashing. 

"She  has  never  once  named  Henry  Lifford,"  said 
her  nephew  to  himself;  "how  like  a  woman!" 

"Give  me  a  day's  grace,  Edmund,"  pleaded  his 
aunt,  "with  Philip.  I  will  come  back  to  my  cage. 
Just  one  day." 

He  rose  and  uttered  the  word  which  had  brought 
him.  "You  shall  have  constant  news.  If  he  is 
dying,  you  shall  be  there,  I  promise  you  that.  Now, 
as  Nora  is  nursing  him,  I  ask  your  leave  to  send  you 
another  attendant — a  girl  we  can  depend  on  from  the 
village.  You  may  remember  Joan,  the  daughter 
of  the  schoolmaster,  O'Dwyer." 

"I  remember  Sheila,"  said  Lady  Liscarroll, 
struck;  "Sheila  left  her  husband."  The  coincidence 
shook  her  a  little. 

"She  did.  You  may  take  Joan  instead  of  Philip," 
said  her  nephew,  touching  that  wound  with  steel. 
"They  had  each  a  mother  and  they  lost  her.  Joan 
will  not  be  hard  upon  you." 


CHAPTER    VI 

SONGS    OF    OLD    TIME 

IT  was  Sunday  morning,  mild  almost  as  an  Eng- 
lish April,  though  December  was  at  hand.  Mass 
had  just  been  celebrated  by  Father  Falvey  in  the 
whitewashed  village  chapel,  and  crowds  of  men, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  women,  stood  outside  on  the 
road  exchanging  a  week's  gossip  between  the  peo- 
ple of  the  town  and  of  the  hills,  who  met  only  at 
mass  or  market.  This  was  the  hour  fixed  for 
Cathal  O'Dwyer  and  his  daughter  to  set  out  toward 
the  castle.  Many  a  soft-hearted  boy  sent  longing 
looks  after  the  damsel  in  a  crimson  petticoat  and 
tight  blue  bodice  as  she  passed  along,  her  gray  shawl 
drawn  over  "the  dark  branching  tresses" — to  speak 
with  our  Celtic  poets — and  held  modestly  before  her 
face  in  the  Oriental  fashion.  She  walked  with  the 
peculiarly  graceful  step  of  the  Munster  maidens,  up- 
right and  rhythmical,  as  if  the  heather  lifted  be- 
neath her  tread,  and  in  her  silent  mouth  there  was 
music,  if  its  sweet  lines  told  no  false  tale.  But 

57 


58  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

neither  she  nor  Cathal  spoke  to  any  one — a  circum- 
stance which  was  afterward  remarked  upon. 

"Felim,"  said  Garret  O'Riordan  to  his  "true- 
brother" — that  is,  being  interpreted,  son  of  the  same 
father  and  mother — "I  have  a  riddle  for  you.  What 
thing  is  there  as  red  as  blood,  as  white  as  snow,  and 
as  black  as  the  crow's  wing?" 

"Aisily  tould,"  answered  Felim,  laughing,  for  he 
had  observed  the  direction  of  his  brother's  glances. 
"But  what  ails  the  two  of  them  not  to  spake  to  you 
and  me?  That  Joan  of  the  schoolmaster's  is  a 
branch  of  beauty — cheeks,  lips,  and  hair.  Mother 
did  well  to  bring  her  up  in  our  place  whin  she  lost 
her  own." 

"Had  th'  ould  man  even  a  weeny  fortune  to  give 
with  her  't  is  n't  long  she  'd  remain  without  a  hus- 
band," said  Garret;  "but,  sure,  they  never  had  a 
day's  luck  in  that  house,  and  Cathal,  in  spite  of  his 
knowledge,  would  drink  the  ocean  dry." 

"If  I  had  that  much  of  a  fortune,"  replied  Felim, 
flicking  his  fingers — and  a  fine  fresh  lad  of  his  inches 
he  was — "or  O'Dwyer  could  give  her  a  cow's  grass, 
I  'd  be  matchmaking  with  Joan  long  ago.  But  what 
signifies  talking?  He  has  n't  a  dish  o'  crab  apples 
to  his  own  cheek.  'T  is  a  lamentable  thing  he  is  not 
able  to  keep  from  the  full  pitcher  till  empty  it  is." 

"Well,  we  have  but  the  one  life,"  said  Garret,  the 


SONGS   OF   OLD  TIME  59 

Epicurean.  "He  never  did  a  ha'porth  of  harm  to 
any  but  his  own.  My  heart  is  sore  for  the  little 
girl.  Though  she  has  a  step  like  the  roe-deer,  and  a 
song  like  the  bird's  from  the  billows,  I  'm  in  dread 
she  will  die  an  ould  maid.  But  if  she  was  Davy 
Roche's  daughter,  and  all  the  land  he  sucked  to  him- 
self was  coming  to  her,"  pursued  Garret,  turning 
a  bright  eye  on  Felim,  "let  her  screech  like  a  hare  in 
a  gin,  or  walk  lame  of  her  two  legs,  I  '11  engage 
she  'd  never  want  for  sweethearts." 

"Yerra,  let  me  alone  with  Davy  Roche,"  answered 
his  brother;  "he  '11  be  purchasing  Renmore  estate 
one  day  of  the  days,  with  his  firkins  of  butter  and  his 
long  laises — the  miser!" 

"And  he  has  a  hould  on  every  man  of  us  that  ever 
borrowed  a  shilling  from  him.  But  I  see  Maurice 
Noonan  there  beckoning  to  us.  Will  we  step  into 
the  haggard  and  take  the  sheoch  of  a  dudeen  to  clear 
our  mouths  of  Davy  Roche?  We  're  with  you, 
Maurice;  don't  be  running  from  us  that  way  like  a 
redshank." 

This  had  long  been  the  tune  to  which  Renmore 
lads — nor  they  alone — would  "sing  and  harp"  about 
Cathal's  daughter,  who  minded  them  as  little  as  any 
girl  that  was  ever  poor,  proud,  and  pretty.  But  now 
she  went  up  with  the  tender-hearted  old  wizard  till 
they  reached  the  demesne,  which  lay  about  two  Irish 


60  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

miles  beyond  the  village.  It  had  tall  fences,  and 
within  them  a  tangle  of  oak  and  birch  and  high- 
shooting  firs;  but  there  was  little  of  an  open  space 
anywhere  round  the  grim  gray  castle,  except  between 
the  reilig — or  small  burying-ground — which  en- 
circled some  nameless  monastic  ruins,  and  the  river 
called  Lonndubh,  the  Blackbird,  from  its  swiftness 
and  its  song.  Cathal  had  lost  his  voice ;  he  felt  that 
Joan  was  going  from  him — felt  it  deeply,  and  would 
have  said,  "There  's  no  loquacity  in  great  grief," 
were  he  not  an  example  of  the  proverb  which  rose 
before  his  mind.  "My  drame  of  Sir  Walter  is  tak- 
ing her  into  itself,"  he  thought;  for  he  was  nothing 
if  not  a  creature  of  omens,  forebodings,  and  secret 
intimacies  with  the  unseen  powers  behind  us,  to 
which  he  stretched  out  a  faltering  yet  curious  hand. 

"I  '11  do  well  yet  in  this  house,"  said  Joan,  cross- 
ing herself  as  they  passed  in.  "Sure  the  woman,  if 
she  was  a  wolf  itself,  can't  ate  me.  We  '11  be  saving 
the  fine  white  shillings  for  Mr.  Roche  ;-and  no  thanks 
to  him,  thin,  if  we  stay  in  our  little  cottage." 

"God  grant  that  same,  my  dear,"  said  Cathal; 
"but  I'd  like  to  set  my  own  eyes  on  her  ladyship  be- 
fore I  give  up  my  one  lamb  to  her.  Ah,  Mr.  Ed- 
mund," seeing  him  in  the  hall,  "I  brought  Joan  as 
you  desired  me." 

"You  are  bringing  the  summer  with  you,  though 


SONGS   OF   OLD   TIME  61 

we  are  near  midwinter,"  said  Edmund,  speaking  in 
Irish.  Whenever  he  was  strongly  moved,  the  color 
and  flame  of  the  old  language  leaped  out  from  his 
words.  "Welcome  as  the  day,  Joan  and  Joan's 
father !  A  sad  house  you  come  into.  Have  you  the 
sun  in  your  heart,  Joan  ?"  taking  her  hand  a  moment. 

"I  '11  ask  the  Blessed  Mother  of  God  for  it,  if  I 
have  n't,"  she  answered,  with  a  singular  pride  and 
modesty.  "Is  the  lady  I  'm  to  wait  upon  above- 
stairs  ?" 

"She  is  in  the  High  Room,"  said  their  conductor. 
"Come,  I  '11  let  her  know  you  are  here."  He  turned 
the  rusty  key  in  the  wards  with  a  grating  sound,  and 
when  they  were  inside,  locked  the  tower  door  again. 

"  'Bolts  on  her  waist,  and  a  thousand  locks  from 
that  up,'"  quoted  the  schoolmaster;  "  't  is  so  she 
should  be  kept  and  bound." 

"Will  I  be  locked  in  with  her  between  these  four 
walls  ?"asked  Joan  of  her  father,  a  faint  blush  run- 
ning over  cheek  and  brow. 

"Till  Sir  Philip  is  well  and  we  know  his  wishes," 
said  Edmund  quickly.  "You  will  be  his  prisoner — 
not  mine.  That  is  the  condition." 

"And  if  I  'm  in  dread  of  what  his  mother  would 
do  to  me,"  she  began,  a  little  frightened,  and  then, 
recovering  her  native  spirit,  "No,  I  won't  be  in 
dread,  Mr.  Edmund.  There  's  a  God  above  all. 


62  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

But  you  must  n't  yourself  be  laving  the  castle  till  Sir 
Philip  is  cured.  I  take  that  promise  from  you." 

"And  I  give  you  my  hand  and  word  on  it,"  he 
cried.  "You  '11  see  my  shadow  always  about  the 
place,  if  it  is  n't  for  an  hour  I  '11  be  spending  with 
your  father  in  the  school." 

"Let  us  go  up,  thin,  in  God's  name,"  said  the  girl. 
"The  stairs  are  dark,  but  the  light  is  above  them." 

"Amin,  a  Thighearna!"  exclaimed  Cathal,  "say 
no  more;  that  's  the  best  word  slipped  from  you  to- 
day." 

Both  she  and  young  Liscarroll  respected  the  omen, 
and  held  their  peace. 

They  were  standing  in  the  High  Room,  in  nervous 
expectation  of  the  lady's  entrance.  She  came  with 
a  proud  step,  always  her  mourning  weeds  about 
her — strangely  dark  and  fair.  Cathal  made  a  most 
elaborate  bow,  while  Joan  rested  motionless,  fixed, 
as  it  would  seem,  by  the  wonderful  beauty  of  this 
woman  who  bore  so  unhallowed  a  reputation.  Their 
eyes  met,  in  scrutiny,  in  a  shy  disquiet  on  one  side, 
on  the  other  in  some  slight  embarrassment,  not  free 
from  anger.  Lady  Liscarroll  resented  the  compari- 
son which  she  knew  they  were  making  between  her- 
self and  this  girl's  low-born  mother.  Edmund  was 
chastising  her  with  scorpions. 

But  she  took  Joan  lightly  by  the  shoulder  and 


SONGS   OF  OLD   TIME  63 

laughed.  "Come  to  the  window,"  she  cried  im- 
petuously; "I  want  to  see  if  you  are  as  pretty  in  the 
light  as  in  the  dim  recesses  of  this  haunted  old  room. 
As  pretty?  You  are  the  flower  of  the  flock,  my 
dear,"  she  continued,  touching  her  cheek.  "She 
features  you,  Mr.  O'Dwyer.  You  see,  I  have  n't 
forgotten  your  name." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
flattered  against  his  good  resolutions,  and  bowing 
to  the  ground,  "I  'd  say  welcome  home  to  your 
ladyship — and  I  do  say  it — but  Sir  Philip  is  suffer- 
ing from  a  hideous  fever  that  casts  a  gloom  on  us  by 
its  violence.  We  're  baring  our  hearts  to  God  for 
him  night  and  day  till  he  's  over  it." 

"I  am  told  he  is  very  ill,"  she  answered,  darting 
a  flash  at  her  nephew.  "I  remember  you  were  fa- 
mous for  your  cures  in  the  country  round,  Mr. 
O'Dwyer.  Try  them  now  on  Philip  and  bring  me 
word  how  he  is.  I  am  a  stranger  in  my  son's 
house." 

"You  won't  be  long  so,"  answered  the  impression- 
able schoolmaster,  who  came  near  forgetting,  under 
the  spell  of  words  and  looks  he  had  never  been  able 
to  resist,  the  bitter  curses  he  had  poured  out  on  her 
sex  in  Edmund's  hearing  the  day  before.  "The 
Liscarrolls  were  noted  always  for  their  princely  hos- 
pitality. Their  door  was  never  closed  but  against 


64  THE    WIZARD'S   KNOT 

the  wind.  And  every  one  that  came  had  new  of  all 
mates  and  ould  of  all  liquors.  Sir  Phil  is  not  be- 
hind his  ancestors." 

"And  that  's  how  King  Cormac  judged  the  race 
of  women,"  said  Edmund,  sharply,  in  Irish,  to  this 
backslider. 

Cathal  started.  "In  good  works,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing in  the  same  language,  discomfited,  "I  'm  no  better 
than  a  fool ;  in  bad  I  'm  equal  to  the  best.  I  should 
be  a  surly  blackthorn  to  these  reptiles  since  Sheila 
was  taken  from  my  head;  and  hear  now  how  I  am 
talking." 

Joan  flamed  up  crimson,  and  Lady  Liscarroll, 
who  had  no  Irish,  or  only  a  few  words  to  pass  the 
time  of  day,  caught  Sheila's  name  distinctly.  Her 
spirit  could  never  be  broken  by  what  she  deemed 
insult.  "You  had  a  fine,  active  wife,  Mr.  O'Dwyer," 
she  said,  with  a  straight  look  toward  him,  "I  hope 
she  is  living  still." 

"She  is  living,  I  believe,  but  not  in  God's  grace," 
answered  Cathal,  instantly,  with  an  air  of  indiffer- 
ence. He  was  as  stern  as  King  Cormac  now.  "If 
I  remimber  right,  my  wife  wint  North  a  little  bit 
before  your  ladyship  wint  South.  The  swan  loves 
the  tide,  and  the  wild  goose  flies  with  the  wind,  so 
I  'm  tould.  And  there  's  music  that  makes  some 
weep,  and  some  sleep,  and  some  laugh.  I  'm  trust- 


SONGS  OF   OLD   TIME  65 

ing  the  laugh  will  be  with  yourself,  my  lady.  But 
Joan  having  lost  her  mother  so  early,  I  was  in  hopes 
you  'd  feel  for  the  poor  angashore." 

The  word  touched  a  fiber  not  quite  dead  in  the 
lady's  bosom.  "I  forgive  your  taunts,  O'Dwyer," 
she  said,  with  more  softness  than  she  had  displayed 
during  the  interview.  "Don't  let  me  pretend  I 
will  be  a  mother  to  your  girl — it  would  be  affecta- 
tion; but  she  shall  go  back  to  you  as  harmless  and 
unharmed  as  she  came.  Now,  child," — to  the  silent 
figure — "tell  me  what  are  your  accomplishments. 
Do  you  know  how  to  read  ?" 

"Read,  is  it?"  interrupted  the  wizard,  with  a 
challenging  laugh,  "Joan  is  the  finest  scholar  in 
English  and  Irish  I  ever  had  in  my  school.  And 
write !  But  all  the  O'Dwyers — that  great  branch  of 
the  race  of  Heremon — wrote  a  hand  like  Colum- 
kille." 

"You  are  a  genius,  then,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Lis- 
carroll,  "and  you  shall  read  to  me  while  I  stay  mewed 
up  in  Loch  Leven.  But  you  never  heard  of  Mary 
Stuart,"  she  concluded  between  a  smile  and  a  sigh. 

"I  would  rather  be  spinning  or  knitting,  my  lady," 
said  Joan,  finding  her  voice  at  last.  "But  if  it  will 
pass  the  time  away,  I  can  read  a  little  to  you. 
Don't  mind  my  father;  he  thinks  the  world  of  me 
and  my  doings." 

s 


66  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"Why  would  n't  I  ?"  cried  Cathal ;  "have  I  chick 
or  child  but  the  one  ?  Above  all,  my  lady,  make  her 
sing  to  you.  My  sorrow,  I  '11  not  be  there  to  listen. 
She  has  the  most  melodious  little  mouth  in  Munster, 
and  a  hundred  ould  songs  between  her  lips." 

"Well,  she  shall  sing  them  all,  and  spin  till  she  has 
spun  enough  to  make  herself  new  clothes ;  my  prison 
will  not  be  so  lonely,"  said  Lady  Liscarroll.  "Ed- 
mund, I  have  never  thanked  you  yet  for  your  kind 
attentions.  I  thank  you  now  from  my  heart." 

He  made  a  slight  inclination.  "And  I  thank 
Joan,"  he  said  in  his  gentlest  voice. 

"You  '11  not  pine  and  sicken  without  your  ould 
daddy,"  said  Cathal  to  her,  when  he  had  taken  cere- 
monious leave  of  the  great  lady,  still  in  his  eyes  "a 
formidable  beldame,"  but  even  so  more  human  than 
his  Sheila,  the  wild  goose  on  the  wing. 

"I  '11  try  not,  father,"  she  answered  in  a  tender 
aside ;  "but  whatever  happens  to  me,  we  must  make 
up  the  rent  for  Davy  Roche  before  the  hungry 
months  are  upon  us.  There  's  three  gales  due  in 
May.  That  will  strengthen  me  against  heart-sick- 
ness, to  know  I  am  aiming  them." 

He  knit  his  arms  round  her,  and  went  heavily 
downstairs  with  his  friend. 

When  they  were  gone,  Lady  Liscarroll  said  with 
an  effort,  "I  suppose  you  have  no  recollection  of  your 


SONGS   OF   OLD   TIME  67 

mother,  Joan?  You  were  quite  a  child  when — all 
that  happened.  You  don't  even  know  what  she  was 
like?" 

"I  remember  two  burning-  eyes;  and  a  mournful 
little  song  used  to  be  humming  in  my  ears  that  I 
thought  was  mother's.  But  I  don't  rightly  know. 
My  father  never  lets  a  word  slip  about  those  times 
unless  he  's  in  great  distress.  I  strive  not  to  be 
thinking,  myself,  when  there  's  no  good  in  it." 

"You  are  a  wise  creature,  my  dear.  Yes,  those 
eyes  are  burning  still  in  your  head — " 

"God  forbid !"  exclaimed  Joan,  hastily  putting  her 
hand  before  the  brilliant,  tearful  eyes  that  had  been 
so  disparaged — for  praise  she  would  not  think  it. 
"Yet  if  it  was  as  you  say,"  she  added  bravely,  "the 
fire  could  be  quenched  with  fastings  and  quiet 
prayers.  'T  is  the  Almighty  owns  all  at  low  tide 
and  flood,  and  he  turns  the  heart  in  aich  one  of  us." 

Her  lady  was  astonished,  but  kept  silence  for  a 
little,  after  which  she  began  once  more.  "What 
was  the  song  you  used  to  hear  humming  about  you  ? 
I  should  like  you  to  sing  it  now  we  are  alone." 

"Oh,  I  would  n't  for  the  world's  wealth,"  said 
Joan,  shaking  with  fear.  "In  the  most  part  of  those 
ould  songs  there  does  be  enchantment.  But,  not 
to  offend  you,  I  could  give  the  sense  that  is  in  it. 
They  call  it,  I  hear,  The  Brow  of  the  Red  Moun- 


68  THE  WIZARD'S  KNOT 

tain.'  'T  is  a  woman,  and  she  sitting  up — for  I 
should  say  the  song  is  in  Irish — since  the  moon  rose 
last  night;  she  is  putting  down  a  fire  on  the  hearth, 
while  the  people  are  in  bed.  'I  'm  by  myself,'  says 
she,  'the  cocks  are  crowing,  and  all  the  land  asleep 
but  me.'  There  is  the  beginning  of  it  for  you." 

"  'All  the  land  asleep  but  me,'  "  echoed  her  mis- 
tress in  a  half  dream ;  "I  was  that  woman  last  night 
— many  a  night.  Why  did  she  sit  up  alone  ?" 

"Oh,  it  was — I  call  to  mind  only  a  word  here  and 
there — hate  that  follows  love  in  every  place  where 
beauty  is  on  a  woman,  the  song  says.  The  boy  left 
her,  or  she  left  the  boy,  I  don't  know  which,  on  the 
brow  of  the  Red  Mountain;  but,  indeed,  he  was 
fond  of  money,  and  she  had  no  fortune — so  I  'd  say 
it  was  he  turned  from  her.  She  can't  get  sleep  or 
drink  down  her  sorrow  after  that.  There  is  more 
of  it;  but  mother  sang  that  much  often  to  put  me  to 
sleep." 

"I  am  that  woman,"  repeated  the  Mary  Stuart  of 
Renmore  to  herself  in  a  melting  mood.  "This 
child — this  innocent — is  the  first  human  being  that 
has  lightened  my  heart  since  the  day  at  Wiesbaden. 
'And  all  the  land  asleep  but  me!'  Ah,  my  little 
Joan,"  she  said  aloud,  "songs  have  their  enchant- 
ments. Pray  you  may  never  fall  under  them. 
Even  your  father,  the  wizard,  could  not  release  you. 


SONGS  OF   OLD  TIME  69 

'And  all  the  land  asleep  but  me!'  That  is  a  won- 
derful word." 

So  began  the  strangest  friendship  ever  seen  inside 
that  Norman-Irish  keep — a  friendship  quickened  by 
something  which  resembled  hatred,  lifted  to  heights 
of  greatness  by  remembrance  of  the  sins  and  sorrows 
without  which  it  had  never  taken  form  or  shape. 

"What  is  your  father's  opinion? — what  do  the 
country-people  think? — about  my  son?"  she  asked 
of  Joan  by  and  by.  "Is  he  much  liked  or  more  dis- 
liked? Speak  without  fear.  To  me  it  is  indiffer- 
ent what  they  feel,  so  long  as  they  don't  hold  him 
cheap  and  despicable." 

"Oh,  he  is  not  despisable ;  no  one  ever  said  that  of 
him." 

"But  hated?  Not  worshiped  and  run  after,  as 
Nora  O' Sullivan  told  me  Edmund  was.  You  mean 
he  tramples  them  down  and  they  resent  it." 

"My  father,"  answered  Joan,  with  a  very  musical 
low  laugh,  "used  to  say  there  was  a  Firbolg  chief 
somewhere  in  the  pedigree  of  Liscarroll,  and  Sir 
Philip  had  his  red  hair  and  his  short  temper.  And 
Edmund  wras  one  of  the  Tuatha  De  Danann — black 
and  comely,  a  maker  of  songs  and  a  true  magician. 
But  how  would  an  English  lady,  the  like  of  yourself, 
understand  the  differ  between  a  Firbolg  and  a  De 
Danann  ?" 


7o  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"No,  I  don't.  However,  red  hair  and  short  tem- 
per are  intelligible  enough.  Is  Philip  a — what  did 
you  call  it? — a  Firbolg  in  the  eyes  of  young  girls, 
too,  Joan?  In  your  eyes,  for  example?" 

"I  see  him  flash  by  on  horseback,  as  if  the  wind 
was  carrying  him,  his  scarlet  coat  blazing,  my  lady — 
and  that  's  all  I  see.  If  I  gave  a  name  to  him — but 
why  should  I? — 't  is  Finvarra,  king  of  the  fairy 
horsemen,  I  'd  be  calling  Sir  Philip.  For  he  's 
here  this  minute,  and  away  with  him  the  next,  in  a 
dazzle  of  white  sunshine,  or  of  mist  from  the  moun- 
tains, the  horse's  hoofs  beating  on  the  road.  And 
inside  the  house  of  God  no  person  ever  set  an  eye 
on  him." 

"Then  he  is  strong,  and  fearless,  and  lonely.  His 
father  to  the  life!  Is  there  any  lady  Jn  the 
neighborhood  he  might  marry?  Miss  Julia 
Hapgood  must  be  growing  into  a  young  woman 
by  now." 

The  girl  looked  up  with  a  roguish  smile  at  her 
mistress.  "Miss  Julia  is  a  horsewoman,  and  there  's 
no  fence  would  stop  her,  they  say.  She  is  often  out 
hunting  with  the  same  pack  of  hounds  that  Sir  Phil 
rides  after.  Would  they  make  a  match  of  it  with 
the  brush  of  the  red  dog  between  them?  But  we 
would  sooner  he  married  the  brown-haired  lady  from 
Russia,  Miss  O'Connor,  that  they  call — whist  now 


SONGS   OF   OLD   TIME  71 

till  I  say  it — Lisaveta  Carlovna.  We  do  be  often 
laughing  at  the  droll  name." 

"That  wild  Charlie  O'Connor's  daughter?  But 
she  was  bred  and  born,  as  you  say,  in  Russia ;  where 
is  she  now?  Is  Charlie  dead?" 

"He  is,  and  her  mother  as  well.  She  came  over 
a  year  back  to  Airgead  Ross,  to  Silverwood — the 
ould  place  of  the  family;  by  all  accounts,  she  has 
millions  to  her  fortune.  Moreover,  she  is  of  the 
Liscarrolls'  religion;  and  Miss  Julia,  as  the  Hap- 
goods  always,  goes  to  church." 

"Let  him  take  Lisaveta  with  her  millions  to  the 
chapel,  then,  as  soon  as  he  leaves  his  sick-bed,"  ex- 
claimed Philip's  mother,  almost  gaily. 

"And  if  Miss  Julia's  heart  was  set  on  him,  what 
should  she  do,  poor  thing?"  said  Joan,  her  fancy 
touched  by  this  picture  of  love  forsaken. 

"She  could  not  take  the  veil,"  said  her  mistress, 
laughing;  "I  think  she  would  do  well  to  break  her 
collar-bone  in  St.  Brandan's  Gap  out  hunting.  Why 
do  you  fix  your  eyes  on  me,  Joan,  so  reproachfully? 
You  think  me  hard-hearted  ?" 

"Sure,  I  know  you  are  not  in  airnest,  my  lady. 
But" — speaking  as  if  to  her  own  thoughts — "was 
I  fond  of  a  boy  and  he  to  lave  me,  I  'd  follow  him  till 
water-grass  grew  in  the  heart  of  the  fire.  How 
could  I  let  my  secret  love  take  up  with  another 


72  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

woman,  had  she  all  the  goold  from  this  to  Lough 
Gur?" 

They  little  knew  that  the  woman  with  the  gold 
— the  brown-haired,  pale-cheeked  Miss  O'Connor — 
was  not  far  from  them  during  their  talk.  Could 
they  have  pierced  the  gray  stone  walls  of  their 
prison,  they  might  have  seen  her  riding  up  to  the 
hall  door  that  very  minute,  as  the  sun  was  sinking, 
large,  sad,  and  fiery,  into  the  Atlantic  behind  her. 

"Miss  O'Connor,  as  I  am  alive,"  cried  Edmund, 
when  he  caught  the  sound  of  her  troubled  voice  out- 
side. "She  has  heard  of  Phil's  accident." 

He  ran  into  the  air,  took  her  bridle,  and  held  the 
small  sorrel  from  which  she  leaped  down.  Ed- 
mund's eyes  were  shining;  not  hard  to  tell  that  he 
was  pleased. 

"Ah,  Miss  Lisaveta,  how  could  you  ride  over  the 
hills — on  Sunday,  too?  Not  surely  alone?" 

"I  left  Yegor  a  mile  behind,"  said  the  girl,  flutter- 
ing like  a  tall,  brown-winged  bird  in  her  riding- 
habit,  and  charmingly  out  of  breath.  "Oh,  how  is 
your  poor  cousin?  They  brought  such  dreadful 
accounts." 

"Phil  is  in  a  bad  way,"  he  said,  "not  given  up ;  I 
am  sending  to  Cork  for  advice.  He  can  see  no  per- 
son. But  you  will  come  in  and  rest.  Do,  now." 

"A  few  minutes.     There  is   Yegor,   grumbling 


SONGS   OF   OLD   TIME  73 

along.  He  will  scold  me.  I  never  had  such  a  task- 
master," said  Lisaveta;  "he  is  worse  than  a  middle- 
man to  me."  Her  face,  even  when  she  smiled,  had  a 
serious  cast — melancholy  under  a  ripple  of  sunshine. 
"You  forgive  me  for  rushing  down  upon  you  with- 
out ceremony  ?  I  do  like  Sir  Philip,  you  know  I  do, 
though  he  terrifies  me  in  his  grand,  silent  way. 
What  a  pity !  What  a  pity !  It  was  an  accident  ?" 

He  gave  her  the  story  as  he  had  heard  it  from  his 
cousin,  but  of  what  had  followed  hotfoot  upon  it 
no  word. 

"That  is  bad — his  walking  home,  not  knowing 
how.  Had  it  been  you,  Mr.  Edmund,"  with  an  arch 
smile,  "you  could  never  have  forgotten.  Your  brain 
is  the  liveliest  part  of  you." 

"I  am  not  without  feeling,"  he  said,  a  little  hurt. 

"Mr.  Liscarroll !  Did  I  insinuate  ?  Why,  Cathal 
O'Dwyer  said,  the  last  time  I  saw  that  miracle  cf 
learning — I  was  quite  delighted  and  amazed — ""T  Js 
God  puts  the  fire  in  a  man's  head.  When  the  heart 
and  the  brain  are  one  thing,  we  have  a  poet  like  Mr. 
Edmund.'  " 

"Delight  and  amaze  are  worth  seeing  in  you," 
stammered  the  stricken  youngster.  "I  thank  Cathal 
for  his  flatteries ;  poets  live  on  honey." 

"Well,  there  's  a  hive  of  honey  waiting  for  you. 
Publish  and  you  '11  see,"  said  the  girl,  taking  off  her 


74  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

hat  to  cool  a  flushed  forehead,  and  displaying  her 
brown  locks  with  fine  gold  threads  in  them. 

"That  is  Charlie  O'Connor's  eager,  forward-look- 
ing gaze,"  thought  Edmund,  "but  who  could  fathom 
a  woman's  heart?"  He  felt  joyous,  bashful,  inde- 
scribably excited.  Death  was  perhaps  hovering  over 
Renmore,  ready  to  strike;  and  here  was  a  dream  of 
possible  love  and  happiness  singing  at  the  window — 
a  nightingale  near  his  heart.  "Cruel  and  sweet,  his 
hands  reach  down  to  hell,"  said  the  schoolmaster 
of  the  terrible  god.  Edmund  was  ashamed.  Hap- 
piness— and  Phil  lying  that  way  upstairs? 

The  girl  trifled  with  her  hat  and  whip;  sat  down 
and  rose  up  as  if  she  must  be  going.  "How  useless 
we  all  ar.e  when  trouble  comes!"  she  said  softly. 
"It  is  our  weakness,  according  to  Cathal,  that  we 
women  are  most  in  the  way  when  we  should  be  most 
out  of  it." 

"You  are  not  in  the  way  here,  this  evening,"  said 
Edmund,  under  his  breath. 

"No?  But  I  am  lingering,  in  spite  of  Yegor's 
visible  impatience  at  the  window,  because — be- 
cause—  You  will  not  be  angry  with  me — ?" 

His  face  burnt.  "What  anger  are  you  talking 
of?"  he  cried.  "Mine?  It  would  turn  in,  I  think, 
and  be  a  knife  in  my  side — here,"  striking  a  hard 
stroke  on  his  breast. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  answered  kindly.     "Well, 


SONGS   OF   OLD   TIME  75 

then,  is  it  true  that  Sir  Philip's  mother  came  upon 
him  out  riding,  and  was  the  cause  of  his  mis- 
fortune?" 

"It  is  not  true.  But  she  is  here.  The  country  is 
talking,  then?" 

"The  fear  of  that,  Mr.  Edmund — am  I  not  a  good 
Irishwoman,  now  confess  it,  to  be  so  quick  at  our 
people's  language? — 't  was  that  brought  me  over. 
I  said  to  myself,  'There  's  no  creature  in  Renmore 
but  those  men,  and  what  would  they  do  with  Lady 
Liscarroll  ?  If  they  would  allow  her  to  stay  with  me 
at  Airgead  Ross,  one  trouble  would  be  off  their 
shoulders.'  Will  it  help  you  at  all,  Mr.  Edmund?" 

He  could  hardly  speak.  The  childlike  courage, 
the  dove's  innocence — the  contrast  between  Lisaveta 
and  his  guilty  aunt — as  if  a  white  bird  dashed  its 
wings  into  the  furnace ;  he  had  a  thousand  thoughts, 
and  none  of  them  to  be  uttered  in  so  sunlit  a  pres- 
ence. At  length — 

"She  cannot  come  to  you,  and  you  must  not  go 
to  her.  There  is  a  great  gulf  fixed." 

Only  parables  would  shadow  out  these  dark  things 
of  life.  How  could  they  bear  allusion?  But  the 
girl  broke  in  on  his  doubts  and  fears. 

"You  dread  the  country's  gossip  more  than  I  do. 
It  would  be  said  that  I  had  no  sense  of  propriety? 
That  you  and  Sir  Philip  had  imposed  on  a  stranger's 
ignorance,  or  on  a  helpless  young  woman  ?  Have  I 


76  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

a  right,  as  the  man  said,  to  be  slandered?  Help- 
less?— ignorant? — well,  I  give  the  sense  of  pro- 
priety up  to  them,  and  welcome." 

"It  cannot  be,"  returned  the  young  man,  with 
firmness,  but  softly  as  we  refuse  children  something 
that  would  hurt  them;  "you  are  managing  Airgead 
Ross  better  than  any  landlord  in  the  country;  you 
speak  more  languages  than  we  ever  heard  tell  of; 
your  arithmetic  is  infallible,  and  you  could  plead, 
like  Portia,  in  the  Four  Courts  of  Dublin.  But  when 
Lady  Liscarroll  came  in  the  door  you  might  as  well 
be  lost,  and  Silverwood,  too,  in  a  dark  Druidic  mist 
forever.  You  would  be  in  one  prison — the  two  of 
ye,"  he  ended  with  a  quaint  turn,  to  smother  the 
bitterness  of  his  saying. 

"I  am  not  convinced,  and  my  heart  is  heavy,  but 
— yes,  Yegor,  don't  point  in  such  despair  to  the  red 
sun ;  we  shall  get  home  by  moonlight.  Mr.  Edmund, 
my  last  word.  Airgead  Ross  stands  open  at  all 
hours — I  invite  Lady  Liscarroll.  We  meet — not 
Tuesday — Friday,  at  the  schoolmaster's.  Give  me 
your  decision  then,  or  before." 

She  was  away  in  the  dusky  sunset,  toward  the 
lone,  bare  hills  which  overhung  the  land  on  that  side 
menacingly,  her  golden-brown  hair  sweeping  in  the 
wind.  Edmund  from  the  avenue  looked  long  into 
the  stormy  sky. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A    HEDGE-SCHOOL 

THE  physician  from  Cork,  whose  name  was  up 
in  the  world,  had  met  Dr.  Driscoll  in  consulta- 
tion, examined  Philip,  pronounced  his  case  danger- 
ous, put  a  handsome  fee  in  his  pocket,  and  gone  back 
on  the  mail-coach  to  Shandon  bells.  "Should  he 
recover,"  said  the  wise  man,  gathering  up  Driscoll's 
loose  but  significant  threads,  "your  patient  may  be 
subject  to  melancholia,  with  or  without  delusions. 
His  brain  is  deeply  affected."  But  to  Edmund  he 
simply  approved  of  the  local  practitioner's  treatment, 
and  spoke  of  a  long  convalescence.  Philip  wasted; 
slept  little ;  never  opened  his  lips  except  when  liquid 
food  or  medicine  was  poured  through  them.  "To 
be  sick  and  sleepless  is  to  call  in  Death,"  said  the 
wizard,  in  a  passing  word  with  Nora  O'Sullivan, 
who  tossed  her  head  incredulously.  "Oh,  if  I  had 
the  poor  gommel  between  my  two  hands,  't  is  in  a 
fine  sweat  and  asleep  he  would  put  the  night  past.  I 
forgot  more  Latin  and  Greek  than  these  doctors 
ever  learned;  but  of  God's  great  store  in  field  and 

77 


78  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

meadow  they  know  as  much  as  the  horned  cattle 
grazing  on  it.  But  if  a  man  has  no  sheepskin  and 
sealing-wax,  he  's  a  fool  to  them." 

So  Cathal  watched  his  opportunity,  not  doubting 
it  would  come.  Edmund  was  in  and  out  of  the  sick- 
room all  day;  every  evening — a  sour  moment — he 
took  such  unpromising  news  as  he  had  to  the  lady  in 
the  tower.  She  was  nearly  as  yellow  in  the  face  as 
her  son.  Should  he  get  over  his  illness,  he  might 
be  violent  with  her;  he  was  sure  to  make  her 
smart  by  words  that  carried  stings;  but  Edmund 
once  in  possession,  she  had  not  even  this  narrow, 
sea-beaten  cloister,  in  which  her  life  was  daily 
fretted,  to  call  her  own.  It  seemed  certain  the  bar- 
onet would  not  live  long.  She  braced  up  her  nerves 
for  a  day  more  bitter  than  Wiesbaden.  And  Joan 
sang  to  her  little  snatches  of  old  love  ditties — old 
hunting  songs  half  remembered;  jovial,  pathetic,  in 
a  sort  of  lullaby  over  the  spinning-wheel ;  but  what- 
ever she  sang,  the  burden  that  Lady  Liscarroll  heard 
was  like  this  from  "The  Coolin,"  that  famous  music, 
"Thou  hast  found  me,  and  hast  bound  me,  and  put 
grief  in  my  heart." 

His  cousin  lying  in  an  enchanted  sickness,  Ed- 
mund was  loath  to  be  from  home.  Yet.  on  the  Friday 
which  followed  the  accident,  he  "rose  with  a  leap," 
saddled  and  bridled,  and  was  off  to  the  high  hills  be- 


A   HEDGE-SCHOOL  79 

yond  the  valley  in  which  Renmore  lay.  There  he 
would  be  idling  when  Miss  O'Connor  rode  down  to 
the  school,  where  they  ought  to  meet.  This  Irish 
gentleman  had  all  the  delicate  courtesies  of  which  his 
kinsfolk  are  past  masters — he  could  be  punctilious; 
he  felt  shame,  but  defied  it,  in  forcing  on  the  lady 
a  sort  of  assignation.  What  harm  was  he  doing, 
after  all?  And  the  curlews  and  plovers  whistled, 
screamed,  and  flew  in  the  golden  air;  they  had  the 
sky  and  the  bald  pates  of  the  hills  to  themselves,  for 
no  man  but  young  Liscarroll  was  there  to  trouble 
them.  But  he,  sauntering  with  loose  rein,  was  fitting 
his  sweet-  Celtic  syllables  to  the  poem  of  Moschus — 
a  dainty  bloom  to  draw  butterflies — and  he  could 
look  up  innocently  when  she  came  in  sight. 

"Here  I  am  out  on  you,  like  the  Plaided  Kern," 
he  said,  a  trifle  confused,  his  eyes  falling  on  the 
paper  he  held  in  his  hand;  "shall  I  guide  you  this 
piece  of  the  way?" 

"I  know  it,  though  I  was  never  at  O'Dwyer's," 
she  answered,  with  the  most  natural  air  in  the  world. 
"Go  on,  please;  I  will  follow." 

He  rode  in  front,  shamefaced,  silent.  What  a 
fool  he  had  made  of  himself!  Master  Cupid  was 
laughing  at  him  out  of  the  Greek ;  "He  's  a  demon  to 
play  on  you,"  it  said  in  fine  mockery.  As  for  Lis- 
aveta,  her  thoughts  were  not  sentimental;  these 


80  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

scenes,  as  they  opened  in  the  hollow,  filled  her  always 
with  sorrow  and  astonishment.  "We  will  stay  on 
the  hilltop,"  she  cried,  and  her  cavalier  halted. 

"There  is  our  village  spread  out  before  you,"  he 
said;  "the  schoolhouse  is  that  cabin  which  turns  its 
shoulder  to  the  wood." 

"How  clear  the  day  is  after  so  much  rain!"  said 
she,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the  sky-line. 

"Will  you  make  a  drawing  of  it  in  water-colors?" 
he  asked. 

"I  may,"  she  replied  absently. 

"What  points  would  you  take  in  the  view  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  see,"  said  Lisaveta,  "  and  if 
you  are  blind  to  it  because  you  have  seen  it  every 
day  of  your  life,  don't  blame  me." 

"A  small  dart,  but  it  strikes  to  the  marrow,"  he 
returned,  still  at  his  Greek. 

"So  much  the  better.  Attend  now,  and  say  if  this 
is  Renmore.  First,  a  long,  green  glen,  bare  to  the 
north,  beautiful  with  hanging  copse  and  covert  in 
sheltered  places ;  all  that  wood  is  on  your  estate  ?" 

"On  Sir  Philip's" — he  corrected  the  phrase. 

"Very  well,  on  the  Liscarrolls'.  Next,  a  silver 
snake,  glittering  as  it  runs  to  the  sea.  That  is  the 
Lonndubh.  Away  beyond — yet  I  could  touch  it 
from  here — the  green,  foam-flecked  Atlantic;  it 
seems  a  floor  we  could  race  over,  emerald  scattered 


A  HEDGE-SCHOOL  81 

with  snow.  Above  us,  the  sky  is  blue  fire ;  and  here," 
pointing  to  it,  "your  castle  sleeps  in  its  forest,  has 
its  roots  in  the  rock.  Do  I  see  what  you  see,  Mr. 
Edmund?" 

"You  have  the  eye  of  a  painter;  mine  looks  too 
often  inward  to  be  so  bright.  Well,  imagine  me  to 
see  all  that.  What  's  after?" 

"Now  look  inward,  downward,  as  you  please; 
between  these  everlasting  hills  you  and  yours  have 
planted.  What  's  after?  A  long,  crooked,  double 
row  of  cabins — or  are  they  sties? — one  story  high, 
not  a  line  straight.  Raddled  like  scabby  sheep  with 
red  paint;  smutched  with  foul  rain  out  of  that  clean 
heaven !  Heaps  of  foulness  about  the  rickety  doors, 
a  stream  of  filth  running  by  them.  An  ugly,  mean, 
abominable  picture,  with  God's  world  to  shame  it. 
That  is  the  still  life  I  discover.  Am  I  wrong?" 

He  answered  with  a  shrug,  "They  say  it  was 
always  so ;  there  's  no  help  for  these  things." 

"Then  the  still  life  quickens,"  she  went  on,  smil- 
ing. "What  do  you  say  of  the  wonderful  Dutch 
menagerie,  Mr.  Edmund,  in  and  out  of  the  hovels  ?" 

"Cocks  and  hens,  goats  and  donkeys,  swine  of  all 
ages  and  sizes,"  he  said  gravely.  "Heaven  send 
them  increase!  It  is  our  natural  history,  which 
pays  the  rent." 

"Too  natural.     I  am  often  of  one  mind  with  Mrs. 

6 


82  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

Cronin  about  it.  Did  you  ever  hear  what  she  said  to 
Father  Falvey  when  he  scolded  her  for  not  attend- 
ing mass  ?" 

"I  did  not.  But  I  know  Jeremiah  Cronin's  ac- 
count of  his  wife's  eloquence  to  me.  'You  see,  sir,' 
said  Jerry,  'she  has  lost  all  her  teeth,  and  there  's  no 
bounds  to  her  tongue.'  And  how  did  she  answer 
the  priest?" 

"  'Yerra/  said  she,  'lave  me  'lone  with  the  chapel. 
I  have  divils  o'  pigs,  and  divils  o'  poultry,  and  divils 
o'  childer  to  be  rearing,  and  unless  I  druv  'em  into  it 
before  me,  I  could  n't  be  there  while  I  said  the  full 
of  my  beads.'  " 

"The  divil's  o'  childer  are  making  a  fine  Donny- 
brook  Fair  of  it  down  below  at  this  moment,''"  said 
the  poet,  "but  they  're  the  prettiest,  wittiest,  and  most 
lovable  in  the  world.  Their  mischief  is  all  inno- 
cence." 

"If  so  many  of  them  would  n't  die  young,"  she 
answered,  her  eyes  glistening  with  a  certain  dew. 
"Look  at  the  girls  on  the  doorstep,  or  crossing  the 
filthy  puddles  with  bare  feet.  Half  of  them  are  in 
decline." 

"And  their  mothers  are  wrinkled  hags  at  thirty. 
It  is  a  world  of  starved  creatures,  better  dead  than 
alive — but  who  would  pay  our  rents  if  they  were 
dead?"  he  concluded  sardonically,  to  keep  down  his 
sick  heart;  "for  God's  sake,  let  us  go  to  O'Dwyer's." 


A   HEDGE-SCHOOL  83 

"Have  patience,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Lisaveta,  "I 
must  burn  this  picture  into  my  brain.  It  is  more 
frightful  than  our  Russian  villages,  and,  God  knows, 
they  are  not  gardens  of  Eden.  Did  you  ever  try  to 
see  all  these  lives  at  once?  As  a  poet,  you  should 
make  the  experiment." 

"You  and  I  imagine  it  as  it  would  be  to  us,"  he 
argued. 

"But  they  feel  it.  Why  are  the  songs  which  you 
call  their  fairy  music  so  tender  and  sad?  Is  it  not 
the  moan  of  despair  ?" 

"Oh,  there  's  the  other — the  rollicking  sort :  'Let 
us  be  drinking  and  courting  the  lasses.'  There  's 
the  jig  and  the  reel — and  they  marry  young,"  he 
added  enviously. 

"Reckless  because  they  have  no  hope,"  said  Lisa- 
veta. 

"The  Celt  was  born  in  April;  he  sees  the  April 
clouds  and  sun  over  him.  I  think  mine  the  true 
story,"  said  Edmund,  moving  forward.  "If 
O'Dwyer  is  not  at  the  school  door,  looking  out  for 
us!  He  will  be  rehearsing  Cormac  MacArt's  ser- 
mon about  women — for  your  good,  Miss  O'Con- 
nor!" 

"What  does  Cormac  MacArt  say  of  us  ?" 

"He  would  be  a  bold  man  that  should  tell  you. 
Ask  the  Druid  himself ;  but  though  Cathal  twists  his 
mouth  against  that  fair  defect  of  Nature,  when  she 


84  THE  WIZARD'S  KNOT 

is  out  of  earshot,  I  never  knew  him  uncivil  in  her 
presence.  He  will  answer  with  a  smig  on  him,  'the 
dear  knows,'  and  pay  your  condescension  a  compli- 
ment in  six  syllables." 

They  had  reached  the  mud  cabin  now — a  building 
such  as  English  country-folk  call  "wattle  and  dab" 
— the  walls  of  which  smoked,  a  very  limekiln,  after 
the  night's  showers.  Cathal,  on  the  sunken  steps, 
made  them  a  graceful  congee,  worthy  of  his  reputa- 
tion as  master  of  the  country  revels. 

"Welcome  and  long  life  to  the  Lady  of  Silver- 
wood  !"  he  exclaimed,  running  out  to  help  her  down. 
"And  to  you,  Mr.  Edmund,"  he  continued,  "the 
blessings  of  all  the  Liscarrolls — love,  valor,  wit,  for- 
ever, as  Tom  Moore  has  it.  'T  is  a  proud  school- 
house  ye  're  entering  this  day." 

He  soon  had  two  little  gossoons — "white  heads" 
he  called  the  fair-haired  laddies — to  walk  the  horses 
up  and  down,  while  Lisaveta  and  Edmund  followed 
him  into  the  smoky  den.  A  couple  of  diminutive 
windows  let  the  sunshine  trickle  across  the  blue  air, 
in  which  the  motes  danced.  There  was  no  other 
ventilation.  A  few  broken  benches,  the  school- 
master's high  desk,  a  cupboard  which  held  some 
torn  volumes,  and  on  the  grimy  wall  a  map  of  Ire- 
land in  faded  tints.  But  the  benches  were  crowded 
with  boys  and  girls,  who  rose  shyly  to  make  their 


A   HEDGE-SCHOOL  85 

low  bow,  molded  on  the  master's,  as  the  quality 
came  in,  and  to  cry,  "God  and  Mary  with  ye!"  in 
answer  to  their  "God  bless  all  here." 

"This,  madam,  is  a  hedge-school,"  said  Cathal, 
handing  Miss  O'Connor  to  his  desk.  "But  if  't  was 
one  half  as  great  in  master  and  scholar  as  Andrew 
Mahony's  (God  rest  him!)  that  taught  me  the 
classics,  my  Voster,  and  my  Six  Books,  I  would  n't 
exchange  it  for  the  groves  of  Academe." 

"It  has  an  earthen  floor,"  said  Lisaveta,  mis- 
chievously, declining  with  a  gesture  to  ascend  the 
rostrum. 

"  'T  is  pleasant  and  warm ;  had  we  the  boards, 
they  would  be  wearing  out,"  said  he. 

"Ah,  Mr.  O'Dwyer,"  said  the  serious  young  lady, 
"I  am  learning  fast  why  you  clever  Irishmen  don't 
get  on  in  the  world." 

"The  Sassenach,  the  wet,  the  Broken  Treaty — and 
our  sins,  God  forgive  us,"  said  Cathal,  taking  deep 
delight  in  his  logical  and  exhaustive  enumeration. 

She  shook  her  curls  impatiently.  "No,  and  no, 
and  no,  I  tell  you  again.  It  is  your  tongue  that 
ruins  you  all.  You  have  an  answer  to  everything." 

"I  believe  it  is  so,"  he  said ;  "the  Sassenach  left  us 
only  our  tongues.  All  things  else  he  took  from  us." 

"Are  you  answered  now  ?"  said  Liscarroll,  greatly 
amused. 


86  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"He  would  be  a  match  for  Yegor,"  said  Lisaveta, 
whose  eyes  had  been  making  acquaintance  with  the 
children,  and  her  lip  smiling  their  way,  during  the 
argument.  "Now,"  she  went  on,  "schoolmaster, 
two  questions." 

He  was  bent  at  once  in  a  formal,  yet  curiously 
courteous  attitude.  "What  is  the  reason,"  she  went 
on,  "that  I  could  part  your  scholars  into  the  fair  and 
the  dark?  That  boy  has  pale  golden  hair,  cheeks 
that  would  vie  with  the  apple-blossom,  a  white  skin. 
The  girl  next  him  is  almost,  not  quite,  as  pretty. 
But  she  might  be  a  brown-skinned  Spanish  girl,  sell- 
ing oranges  in  Seville." 

"And  they  are  first  cousins."  he  replied,  with  a 
triumphant  laugh.  "We  ould  Irish,  including  your- 
self, Miss  O'Connor,  have  Spanish  blood  in  our 
hearts ;  we  are  Milesians  from  the  valleys  of  Biscay. 
The  later-comers — we  don't  despise  them,  Mr.  Ed- 
mund— were  Normans,  fair  and  chivalrous.  But 
the  Saxons,  the  Cromwellians,  they  were  worse  than 
the  sons  of  Lopus,  plebeians  to  the  bone.  Look  your 
fill  on  Richard  Fitzgerald  there,  and  his  dark  cousin, 
Una  Rahilly — those  children  should  be  in  the  Irish 
Book  of  Gold  if  we  had  one.  What  is  your  second 
question,  ma'am?" 

"Why  have  most  of  the  children  sore  eyes  ?  Why 
am  I  constantly  meeting  blind  old  men  and  wo- 


A  HEDGE-SCHOOL  87 

men?  They  sadden  me.  But  they  were  not  born 
blind?" 

The  schoolmaster's  eloquence  had  met  with  a 
check.  "I  never  gave  a  thought  to  it,"  he  said. 

"Nor  did  I,"  said  Liscarroll,  "more  shame  for  us 
both.  Ah,  you  would  soon  find  out,  Miss  O'Connor. 
Why  do  you  put  your  handkerchief  to  those  eyes  of 
yours?"  He  had  been  watching  her  closely. 

"It  is  the  smoke,"  answered  Lisaveta,  "the  sharp 
smoke  of  the  peat." 

"Live  in  that  smoke,  year  in,  year  out,  in  the  dust 
or  mud  of  a  cabin,  close  as  you  can  creep  to  the  fire 
during  our  long  winter  months,"  said  Edmund  to 
himself  in  a  low  tone — "my  own  eyes  are  getting 
purged,  I  think." 

"Then  't  is  Davy  Roche  the  middleman  blinds 
the  people,"  cried  O'Dwyer,  striking  his  desk  till 
it  rang  again.  "Davy  and  the  like  of  Davy,  with 
their  rack-rints  on  us.  Oh" — he  broke  into  a  tower- 
ing passion — "oh,  Davy,  may  the  divil  sweep  out 
hell  with  you — and  then  burn  the  broom!" 

"Whist,  whist,  my  dear  Cathal,"  said  his  friend, 
soothing  him,  "maxima  reverentia  debetur  pueris — 
et  puellis.  The  children,  man  alive !  the  lady !" 

"I  humbly  beg  her  pardon  and  theirs,"  he  re- 
turned, wiping  his  forehead.  "But  surely,  to  take 
the  eyes  out  of  our  heads  with  rack-rinting  is  an 


88  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

atrocity  that  cries  to  God  for  vengeance.  Hell's 
flaming  heart  would  n't  be  too  hot  for  the  man." 

"  'T  is  after  their  oaths  the  women  are  at  their 
best,"  said  Liscarroll,  "now  do  you  be  at  your  best 
after  so  mighty  an  invective."  The  schoolmaster 
swelled  out  his  feathers  again.  "Can  you  gratify 
Miss  O'Connor  in  the  thing  she  came  for?" 

"Your  soul  to  God !  Is  there  a  thing  I  would  n't 
do  for  O'Connor's  daughter  ?"  cried  Cathal,  hoarsely; 
"many  and  many  's  the  time  I  had  the  privilege  of 
your  father's  company — may  he  never  want  for  the 
ambrosial  cup  this  day  in  heaven!  Often  he  said 
to  me,  'O'Dwyer,  I  '11  be  the  last  of  the  roving 
blades;  but  we  '11  have  the  jug  on  the  ground  be- 
tween us  in  spite  of  that.'  Wisha,  God  be  with  ould 
times !  No  man  has  more  respect  for  Father  Mathew 
than  myself;  but  still  and  all — " 

"My  father  was  sentimental  and  impulsive — the 
Irish  April,"  said  Lisaveta,  glancing  not  unkindly 
toward  Edmund;  "my  mother  had  a  pretty  name 
for  him — she  called  him  'the  wood  spirit' ;  and  our 
peasants  on  the  Volga  were  ready  to  face  death  if 
he  lifted  his  ringer.  He  roved  far  enough.  It  was 
his  dying  wish  that  brought  me  to  Ireland,  'to  the 
fair  hills  of  Erinn,  O !'  " 

"What  fun  and  dancing,  wrestling  and  hurling, 
there  used  to  be  with  him — and  the  songs  and 


A   HEDGE-SCHOOL  89 

stories  after  that — at  Airgead  Ross!"  said  Cathal, 
regretfully. 

"My  will  is  good  to  have  them  once  more,"  said 
Miss  O'Connor,  her  eyes  kindling,  "if  it  was  but 
for  his  sake.  Come  over  now  at  your  free  times 
to  Silverwood,  and  help  us.  That  is  one  thing  I 
am  asking,  Mr.  O'Dwyer." 

"I  am  not  as  I  was,"  answered  the  schoolmaster, 
with  a  sigh;  "aches,  and  pains,  and  penury  accom- 
pany ould  age;  but  surely  I  '11  do  my  share." 

"And  could  we  keep  the  true  May  Day,  Bealtaine, 
with  its  dances  about  the  whitethorn  and  every 
good  custom,  thanks  to  you,"  Lisaveta  continued, 
"would  n't  your  name  and  fame  be  equal  to  blind 
Heffernan's,  William  Ball's,  you  admire  so  ?" 

"  'T  is  a  prospect  would  enrapture  the  great  gods 
that  sat  on  Ida's  hill,"  answered  he,  "but  one  favor 
and  grace  I  beg — Mr.  Edmund,  you  won't  see  me 
come  short  in  the  finer  amenities  of  the  entertain- 
ment?" 

"I  beg  it,  likewise,  Mr.  Liscarroll,"  said  the  lady ; 
"you  will  revive  the  Feasts  and  Contests  of  Bards 
on  my  lawn — " 

"And  under  your  eyes,"  said  the  young  man. 

"Brighter  eyes  shall  do  the  honors  of  Silverwood 
— I  will  undertake  for  that.  What  says  your  song  ? 
'There  are  maidens  would  be  mine,  with  wealth 


9o  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

of  land  and  kine' — those  maidens  shall  look  down 
on  the  lists,  as  in  the  Cour  d' Amour.  Is  it  a  treaty  ?" 

"Poets,  wrestlers,  dancers,  and  a  fair  May  Day," 
said  her  cavalier,  in  a  taking  of  pleasure.  "Do  you 
call  that  reforming  our  bad  habits  ?  I  thought  you 
would  banish  joy  and  be  teaching  us  the  Saxon 
trades." 

"As  if  joy  were  not  the  life,  the  crown,  of  all 
noble  trading !"  answered  Lisaveta,  with  enthusiasm. 
"I  would  never  take  from  our  dear  people  their 
merry  heart — Cathal,  you  understand — the  gold  they 
earn  must  be  fairy  gold  which  does  not  turn  to 
dead  leaves." 

"Had  they  the  word  of  enchantment  to  the  door 
of  the  fort!"  he  answered  dejectedly. 

"Mr.  Edmund  has  it.  And  you — the  Druid,  the 
teacher — ?" 

"Who  is  neglecting  his  Trojans,"  said  Cathal, 
"and  they  like  a  crowd  of  starlings,  greedy  of  beak, 
sharp  of  claw,  to  seize  all  we  're  saying.  Go  home 
now  with  ye,  children;  I  give  a  holiday  in  honor 
of  our  illustrious  visitors.  Out  with  ye,  every  one." 
The  school  emptied  in  a  second. 

"Now  till  May  Day  we  three  are  in  strict  alli- 
ance," said  Miss  O'Connor.  "Then  we  will  keep  it 
in  great  style.  You  shall  be  our  magician,  and 
throw  over  us  the  glamour  of  Tara's  high  days." 


A   HEDGE-SCHOOL  91 

"I  '11  have  the  chain  of  silence  shaken,  silver  and 
iron,  to  keep  order,"  said  Cathal,  dancing  a  step  in 
his  delight;  "that  's  the  drum-step,  my  lady,  and 
not  a  man  from  this  to  Limerick  could  dance  it  as 
firmly.  You  tell  me  I  am  a  Druid.  Well,  I  will  bind 
ye  with  the  wizard's  knot,  and  make  ye  all  turn  as 
it  goes  round  ye." 

"The  wizard's  knot?"  said  Miss  O'Connor. 

"  'T  was  an  enchantment  put  into  hanks  of  yarn 
by  the  wise  man  or  the  wise  woman,  to  keep  the 
place  safe  and  sacred  where  it  would  be  tied,  and 
to  bind  under  bonds  every  soul  it  was  laid  upon. 
Not  Fionn  MacCumhal  himself  could  stand  up  to 
it.  You  never  heard  tell  of  the  Cave  of  Keshcorran, 
and  the  three  hags  that  'upon  three  crooked  and 
wry  sticks  of  holly  hung  as  many  bewitched  hasps 
of  tow,  reeling  it  off  left-handwise'  to  put  on 
Fionn  a  deadly  tremor  when  he  was  caught  in  it. 
But  I  would  put  on  ye  a  tremor  of  joy,"  said  he, 
looking  at  them  significantly. 

"We  are  in  your  hands,"  said  she,  laughing;  "you, 
Mr.  Edmund,  bring  your  poets  and  poetry." 

"If  Philip  comes  round,"  he  said,  hesitating,  upon 
which  they  felt  the  morning  with  its  gracious  lights 
was  overcast. 

"We  '11  cure  him  yet,  with  God's  help,  had  he 
nine  times  as  many  doctors,"  cried  O'Dwyer. 


92  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"Leeches  they  may  well  be  denominated — the  blood- 
suckers. Will  they  never  be  taught  that  the  sight 
of  blood  is  to  God  and  the  sun  an  abomination?" 

It  was  a  fair  stroke  at  the  crimson  methods  of 
the  day  in  those  backward  districts,  and  raised  a 
smile.  None  there  could  have  told  what  depths  of 
ancient  superstition  they  were  looking  into. 

"But  a  word  with  you,  Mr.  Liscarroll,"  said  the 
girl.  "Good  morning,  schoolmaster.  My  compli- 
ments to  Joan.  Where  is  your  dark  cailinf" 

"She  is  above  at  the  castle,"  answered  O'Dwyer, 
vaguely,  his  eye  seeking  the  ground.  "  'T  is  help- 
ing Nora  O'Sullivan  she  is." 

When  they  were  outside,  before  mounting, 
Lisaveta  put  her  query  to  Edmund.  "When  does 
your  aunt  come  to  me?  I  wish  it,  you  know." 

He  gave  a  deep  sigh.  "I  might  tell  you  she  can't 
leave  my  cousin — a  falsehood." 

"Which  you  are  not  the  man  to  utter.  Then 
she  accepts?" 

"I  have  to  think  of  you,  Miss  O'Connor,  and  for 
you.  It  is  impossible." 

"Say  no  more,"  she  answered,  with  some  sharp- 
ness, yet  with  melancholy  in  her  tone.  "You  regard 
me  as  the  young  person,  who  cannot  be  trusted  to 
brave  talk  and  silliness  when  there  is  something 
to  do." 


A   HEDGE-SCHOOL  93 

"The  world's  opinion  is  not  silly." 

"I  despise  it,"  she  said;  "so  will  you,  or  you  are 
not  the  man  I  took  you  for.  But  I  have  done. 
Good  morning,  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman." 

As  he  rode  home,  the  youth  finished  his  Irish  con- 
strue of  Moschus.  The  last  verse  had  a  sting: 
"Touch  not  his  wily  gifts,  for  all  are  hot  from  the 
furnace." 

"Aye,  that  's  true,"  he  said  to  himself,  "but  I  Ve 
gripped  them  hard.  Too  late !" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    MIST    AND   THE    STREAM 

BUT  if  Edmund  had  full  confidence  that  the  maid 
of  Airgead  Ross  cared  a  bit  for  him — which  he 
had  not — he  would  have  told  her  what  a  Banshee 
of  wailing  and  ill-presage  moaned  in  the  High  Room 
at  Renmore.  His  heart  was  bruised  and  broken, 
like  ice  on  deep  waters — the  rainbow-gleams  in  which 
his  first  youth  wandered  musing  sank  into  the  thun- 
der-cloud. At  such  a  time,  dull  in  spirit,  alive  to 
every  stroke  of  sorrow,  he  felt  sadness  in  all  that  the 
Russian  girl  had  made  him  see  with  her  clear  eyes, 
while  they  scanned  the  village  from  above — aye,  even 
while  his  words  rang  against  hers.  The  fine  purple 
of  his  dreams  fell  to  ashen-gray;  Philip  weighed 
heavy  on  his  arms,  cold  as  a  corpse.  He  would  have 
given  the  succession  of  Renmore  estate  to  save  him, 
without  a  second  thought.  Hardly  because  he  was 
fond  of  his  cousin — he  did  not  know  whether  to 
like  Phil  or  let  grow  up  in  himself  that  secret 
displeasure  which  the  Celt  cherishes  in  silence  under 
civil  speeches,  where  something  holds  back  his  affec- 

94 


THE   MIST  AND   THE   STREAM  95 

tion,  as  the  north  wind  holds  the  rain.  No,  but  if 
he  died,  the  village  gossip  would  come  true;  Lady 
Liscarroll's  venomous  eye  would  have  murdered  her 
son. 

How  was  Philip  to  get  his  quiet  sleep,  on  which 
recovery  depended?  The  days  went  over  him, 
always  speechless,  but  with  unclosed  eyelids;  Dr. 
Driscoll  prescribed;  the  famous  Cork  physician 
earned  another  handsome  fee;  the  patient,  speaking 
once — but  it  might  be  his  delusion  that  spoke — mut- 
tered to  Nora  O'Sullivan,  "I  am  looking  at  a  swift 
stream  that  broadens  and  broadens;  when  it  flows 
into  the  red  mist  beyond,  I  am  a  dead  man." 

The  nurse  hushed  him  with  tender  words,  and 
carried  this  fine  image,  or  vision,  to  Edmund.  At 
his  evening  report  in  the  High  Room  he  whispered 
it  with  a  fall  in  his  voice,  thinking  to  prepare  the 
woman  who  walked  to  and  fro  incessantly  between 
the  seaward-looking  window  and  the  door,  caged 
but  untamable.  "When  the  mist  meets  the  stream," 
she  said,  quivering,  "you  will  suffer  me  to  be  there — 
you  will,  Edmund?" 

"Now  you  might,"  he  answered;  "it  is  Driscoll 
warns  against  a  possible  shock.  Otherwise — " 

Her  reply  was  decided.  "While  there  is  a  chance 
I  will  not  go  down.  They  would  say  my  looks 
were  poison  to  him,  if  anything  happened.  But 


96  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

the  red  mist  is  an  old  sign  in  his  family" — she 
was  careful  not  to  say  "in  ours."  "Have  n't  you 
heard  Sir  Walter  talk  volumes  on  the  Liscarroll 
death-tokens?  That  is  one  of  them." 

"Perhaps  Philip  heard  his  father  talking,  and  now 
fancies  it.  Then  you — if  I  send,  you  will — it  will 
not  be  too  intolerable  a  pain?" 

She  smiled  and  dropped  her  lip,  with  an  anguish 
he  had  never  yet  seen  on  the  haughty  features. 
"When  my  son  shut  me  into  this  tomb  the  bitter- 
ness of  death  was  past." 

No,  it  was  yet  in  store.  Philip  began  to  babble 
all  day  of  the  mist  and  the  stream.  Seven  weeks  af- 
ter November  Eve,  when  a  great  fall  of  snow  prom- 
ised a  white  Christmas,  and  no  bird  sang  in  the 
boughs  of  Renmore,  he  took  a  turn  from  silence  to 
the  same  words  ever — "The  mist  and  the  stream — 
the  mist  and  the  stream."  Said  Nora,  his  foster- 
mother,  the  tears  running  down,  "Is  n't  it  mourn- 
ful the  case  he  is  in?  My  long  sorrow  that  no 
doctor  can  heal  or  cure  him."  And  she  thought, 
but  refrained  from  saying,  "If  I  was  to  tell  Cathal 
O'Dwyer  now,  what  harm  would  he  do  to  give  a 
cast  of  his  hand  over  the  bed?" 

She  let  a  sly  word  fall  in  Joan's  hearing,  delicately 
stained  with  one  tint  of  imagination.  "Mr.  Ed- 
mund would  be  heart-broken  not  to  call  for  the 


THE   MIST  AND   THE   STREAM  97 

Druid's  skill  and  knowledge  was  there  good  in  it," 
which  Joan,  meaning  no  evil,  quoted  to  her  father 
on  his  next  appearance.  A  victorious  light  came 
into  his  green-gray  eyes. 

"Let  Nora  lave  the  door  to  me,"  he  said;  "had  I 
five  minutes'  clinical  observation  of  the  symptoms, 
I  'd  brew  Sir  Philip  a  potion  as  miraculous  as  Hip- 
pocrates or  Galen  ever  composed.  Tell  the  woman 
I  'm  here  in  expectation." 

Then  his  scorn  was  poured  out  on  Driscoll. 
"That  much,"  he  cried,  snapping  his  fingers,  "for 
the  man  of  medical  science,  with  his  sublimates,  his 
steel,  his  drugs,  and  the  whole  of  his  paraphernalia. 
Glory  be  to  the  Almighty! — as  long  as  the  fox  is 
running,  he  's  caught  at  last.  To  the  poor  Druid 
he  must  come  down,  though  it  sticks  in  his  gizzard. 
But  let  me  clap  eyes  on  the  patient  they  are  mal- 
treating." 

Nothing  loath,  Nora  left  the  door  as  she  was 
bidden,  and  Cathal  stole  in  on  tip-toe.  From  be- 
hind the  bed-curtains  he  watched  Sir  Philip  with  an 
eye  as  bright  as  a  hawk's,  while  the  endless  phrase 
turned  on  itself — "The  mist  and  the  stream — the 
mist  and  the  stream." 

"If  it  was  a  windmill,  his  tongue  could  n't  be  go- 
ing faster,"  said  Nora,  "and  his  pulse — feel  it  your- 
self— do  be  bating,  bating,  day  and  night  as  quick." 

7 


98  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"I  '11  put  a  stop  to  both  of  them,"  answered  Cathal, 
with  supreme  assurance.  "But  hould,  woman,  till 
my  prognostics  are  concluded." 

The  word  was  made  to  silence  her.  O'Dwyer, 
charlatan  or  wizard,  continued  peering  into  the  open 
eyes  and  face  of  the  invalid,  felt  his  pulse  and  his 
heart  repeatedly,  and  went  through  all  the  rites  of 
the  professional  artist,  solemn  as  a  red  Indian.  He 
tasted  the  physician's  draught  and  shook  his  head 
mournfully.  "I  need  n't  inquire  for  a  disease  but 
this,"  he  said  to  Nora,  in  a  tragic  aside.  "At  what 
hour  does  Mr.  Edmund  be  visiting  her  ladyship  in 
the  High  Room?"  he  asked,  when  his  long  and 
minute  examination  was  over. 

"Between  seven  and  eight  at  night,"  said  the 
nurse. 

"Now,  Nora,  we  're  ould  friends  and  neighbors," 
said  he,  "and  you  would  n't  see  me  wronged.  What- 
ever we  do  for  Sir  Phil,  the  doctor  must  not  know 
it." 

"I  '11  take  every  book,  shut  or  open,"  said  Nora, 
"to  keep  it  from  him." 

"  'T  is  prudent,  also,  to  lave  Mr.  Edmund  in  the 
dark,  so  as  he  would  n't  be  answerable  to  Driscoll 
or  the  Corconian  if  our  medicament  failed — a  thing 
it  will  not." 

"Give  me  your  orders,  and  you  need  n't  fear  me," 


THE   MIST  AND   THE   STREAM  99 

said  the  ancient  woman,  dominated  by  his  fame  as  a 
fairy-doctor,  but  still  more  by  his  resolute  bearing. 

"I  must  have  twenty-four  hours,  and  be  out  in  the 
moon,  as  long  as  she  shines  this  night,  to  collect 
the  medicinal  herbs  and  steep  them  according  to  the 
rules  o'  knowledge.  To-morrow  night,  before 
seven,  do  you  call  down  my  daughter  from  the 
tower,  and  let  her  be  waiting  for  me  in  the  clump  of 
hazels  near  the  reilig.  The  remainder  will  be  my 
duty.  I  won't  be  seen  in  the  business,  good  or 
bad,  however." 

"But  if  he  was  to  die  in  the  night?"  she  asked. 
"I  'in  in  dread  when  he  's  tired  of  talking  he  '11  get 
death  that  minute.  Listen  to  him  now." 

"In  less  than  one  turn  of  the  sun  and  one  of  the 
moon  I  could  n't  heal  a  sick  man,  though  I  got 
Ireland  for  it.  The  fall  of  sriow  is  bad  for  me,  too. 
Don't  let  him  die,  nor  do  you  think  of  it;  but  put 
your  life  itself  into  him  till  Joan  comes  from  me  to- 
morrow at  the  hour  appointed."  He  paused  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  himself,  on  her,  and 
over  the  insensible  patient,  saying  in  a  deep  whisper, 
"I  bind  him  to  life;  I  bind  you  to  silence;  young 
man,  wait  for  me — woman,  put  seven  locks  on  your 
tongue.  In  the  name  of  the  strong  angel  that 
houlds  the  sword!" 

He  went  on  tip-toe  out  of  the  room,  and,  after 


ioo  THE    WIZARD'S   KNOT 

writing  a  word  to  be  given  in  to  Joan  with  her 
mistress's  dinner,  betook  him  to  his  gaunt  old  cabin, 
where  he  spent  some  hours  alone.  A  neighbor  came 
to  the  door,  but  could  not  get  an  entrance;  neither 
was  there  any  that  answered  her  loud  and  vehement 
callings.  The  saucy  village  gossoons  crept  round  to 
see  what  their  schoolmaster  was  doing,  with  a  de- 
lighted fear  that  if  he  opened  and  ran  out  upon  them 
they  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  familiar  spirit — 
black  cat,  or  blacker  demon — which,  they  made 
sure,  was  sitting  beside  him  on  the  hearthstone. 
But  O'Dwyer  gave  little  heed  to  the  breathings  about 
his  threshold  or  the  spurts  of  smothered  laughter; 
he  did  not  hear  them,  probably.  His  whole  soul  was 
wrapt  in  deep  cogitation,  while  his  corded  hands, 
brown  and  withered,  were  busy  in  mixing  herbs  after 
prescriptions  which,  as  he  believed,  came  down 
through  long  centuries  from  the  fairy-doctors  of  the 
Tuatha  De  Danann.  In  secret  bundles,  hid  under 
the  thatch,  he  kept  these  potent  herbs,  gathered  in 
their  season — marsh-marigolds,  primroses,  yarrow, 
eyebright,  vervain,  St.  John's  wort,  and  many  more. 
They  had  each  their  hidden  virtues,  quickened  by 
prayers  sung  over  them  to  a  weird  chant,  and  in  a 
mixture  of  Christian  language  with  pagan  cere- 
monies. But,  seemingly,  this  afternoon,  the  charm 
was  not  complete.  O'Dwyer  sat  down,  at  last,  in 


THE   MIST  AND   THE   STREAM  101 

a  silence  which  not  even  prayer  interrupted,  waiting 
for  night  and  the  moon. 

What  followed  was  never  clearly  ascertained. 
That  he  left  the  fire  burning — a  precaution  against 
wandering  ghosts, — locked  up  the  house,  and  sallied 
forth  into  the  snowy  woods,  returning  no  man's 
salute,  those  few  could  avouch  who  met  him.  Few 
they  were,  since  the  Irish  peasant  is  convinced  that 
after  nightfall,  "outside  the  house  is  for  the  dead, 
inside  for  the  living."  It  was  Cathal,  or  Cathal's 
likeness,  bent  on  a  dubious  errand ;  in  either  case  he 
would  not  answer  their  challenge  as  he  was  going 
the  road.  Whither  and  what  to  do  ? 

On  this  head  many  spoke  many  things.  The 
lights  and  shadows  of  an  hour  when  the  moon  sails 
above  thick  tree-tops,  glancing  on  a  wild  torrent 
like  the  Lonndubh,  catching  up  gleams  from  the 
ocean  to  scatter  them  far  and  wide  in  endless  re- 
verberations, are  full  of  mystery.  Was  it  O'Dwyer 
that  went  stooping  by  the  gnarled  roots  along  the 
stream,  as  if  in  search  of  fairy  plants  to  compose 
the  healing  draught?  Not  unlikely.  Or  did  he 
stand  colloguing  with  a  crooked  old  body — man  or 
woman;  perhaps  something  worse — under  the  in- 
violate hawthorn  which  grew  upon  the  lis  of  Ren- 
more,  while  the  moon  went  into  a  cloud?  Did  he, 
whispered  others,  shivering  yet  not  without  a  thrill 


102  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

of  admiration  at  his  bold  deed,  open  the  Black  Book 
itself?  Though  Cathal  was  known  to  be  good- 
natured — a  white  wizard,  famous  for  extraordinary 
cures — his  two  hands  might  be  of  different  colors. 
Lisaveta,  viewing  the  new  world  into  which  destiny 
had  brought  her  with  un jaundiced  eye,  once  uttered 
this  truth :  "It  is  a  people  secret  and  suspicious  be- 
yond any  God  has  made."  His  neighbors  liked 
O'Dwyer — and  suspected  him ;  but  the  latter  in  their 
silent  hearts.  A  good  man — for  his  convivialities 
were  no  sin  to  their  thinking — he  had  power  with 
the  fairy- folk  and  knew  their  ways ;  but  were  he  out 
now,  "in  the  merriment  of  the  cold  wind,"  some  mis- 
chief devising,  they  would  only  like  him  the  less 
and  dread  him  the  more. 

Some,  therefore,  talked  of  the  spell  he  had  to  call 
Donn  Firinne,  king  of  the  Munster  fairies,  from  his 
castle  under  Lough  Gur,  into  any  place,  however 
far  off,  he  might  choose.  Others — among  them  cer- 
tain old  hags  upon  whom  he  had  put  a  caustic  word 
— said  the  Black  Man  was  nearer  to  him  than  the 
Brown — "Donn"  is  that  color  in  Gaelic.  But  when 
the  event  came  to  pass  which  startled  the  country 
twenty  miles  round,  all  were  certain  they  had  known 
of  the  tremendous  and  fateful  charm  wrought  that 
snowy  night  by  Cathal  in  the  moonlit  woods.  His 
shadow,  single  or  double,  going  about  till  the  sun 
rose  and  drove  him  home,  flitted  through  copse 


THE   MIST  AND   THE   STREAM  103 

and  brake  years  afterward,  when  he  was  mingled 
with  the  clay.  A  night  of  power,  the  wizard's 
moon  glaring  down  upon  it,  malignant,  unwhole- 
some! 

Thus  they.  And  whatever  Cathal  came  out  to  do, 
we  may  be  sure  he  did  that  thing.  If  to  gather 
herbs  of  health,  he  took  them  home  with  him;  if 
on  a  business  more  fell  and  daring,  his  smile  as  he 
undid  his  cabin  door  betokened  its  accomplishment. 
The  rest  of  the  day  which  followed  he  spent  in 
school ;  but  the  lessons  were  sharply  given,  and  boys 
and  girls,  hearing  his  first  words,  knew  with  their 
quick  Irish  fancy  they  must  let  the  master  alone  that 
morning.  He  had  not  broken  his  fast  by  so  much 
as  a  draught  from  the  little  still  he  kept,  "unknown 
to  the  gager."  Nor  would  he  until  the  potent  brew 
he  was  putting  down  at  the  fire  had  left  his  hands; 
for  it  was  no  vile  apothecary's  concoction,  but  true 
aqua  vita,  into  which  the  fairy-doctor  must  fling 
his  own  soul. 

Joan,  the  innocent,  had  her  instructions.  Dusk 
fell,  and  she  was  waiting  among  the  hazel-trees, 
cold  in  a  bitter  blast.  Her  father,  his  patched  cloak 
hiding  what  he  brought,  came  stealthily  along,  cau- 
tious not  to  break  a  twig,  hardly  venturing  to  crush 
the  freezing,  powdered  snow.  They  met  without 
a  word.  After  a  while  he  inquired  about  Philip. 
"Is  the  life  in  him  yet?" 


104  THE    WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"It  is,  but  as  a  rushlight  blowing  backward  and 
forward  at  the  door.  Nora  believes  he  '11  not  put 
the  night  past.  Father  Falvey  was  there  this  after- 
noon to  do  what  he  could  for  him." 

"Does  the  tongue  be  ever  going  to  the  same 
tune?" 

She  assented  hastily.  "Let  me  in  again,  father. 
Lady  Liscarroll  will  be  asking  for  me." 

"Don't  mind  her,"  he  answered.  "But  now  put 
this  under  your  shawl,  in  the  name  of  God.  Go 
from  me  without  turning  your  head  or  looking 
back,  whatever  thing  screeches  to  you;  but  away 
with  you,  Joan;  bate  up  to  the  sick-room,  and  with 
your  own  hand  give  the  drink  in  nine  sups  to  Sir 
Phil.  Thin  tell  Nora  to  burn  what  I  left  yester- 
day. I  '11  come  for  news  to-morrow  early." 

With  a  gesture  of  command,  he  put  into  her  hands 
an  ancient  flask  of  gold  beaten  thin,  ornamented  with 
the  curious  snake-lines,  twisted  fantastically,  which 
we  have  admired  in  Irish  illuminations.  It  was 
treasure-trove  dug  out  of  a  bog,  not  yielded  up  to 
Government,  and  worth  far  more  than  its  owner  sus- 
pected, but  by  him  unsalable.  Showing  her  how  to 
undo  it,  "Go  before  you  now,"  he  said,  "and  for  your 
soul  don't  look  to  right  or  left  till  you  are  in  the 
house."  With  these  admonitions,  he  departed,  steal- 
ing away  as  he  came. 


THE  MIST  AND   THE   STREAM  105 

The  girl's  heart  throbbed  violently;  a  murmur 
as  of  low  voices  began  to  sing  in  her  ears.  Leaves 
rustled;  snow  fell  in  sparkling  and  blinding  sheets 
from  the  branches  upon  her;  a  hare  ran  across  her 
path,  and  some  wild  thing  flew  into  her  face,  as  she 
ran  breathless  up  to  the  castle.  The  wind  thickened, 
the  woods  roared ;  a  great  sound  of  the  sea  troubled 
her,  but  still  she  ran.  At  the  hall  door  she  was  on 
the  point  of  stumbling,  in  such  headlong  haste  did 
she  flee  from  those  voices  which  muttered  low, 
"Turn  back,  turn  back !"  The  trees,  the  wind,  the  sea, 
were  after  her,  like  hands  touching  her  hair  in  the 
stormy  blast.  But  she  did  not  stumble,  and  once 
within  doors  her  courage  mounted.  "Sure,  I  am  a 
hare  myself  to  be  in  dread  of  one,"  she  thought  re- 
proachfully. "  'T  is  n't  that  I  should  be  minding, 
but  what  I  have  in  my  fingers.  Good  now,  Joan, 
do  as  you  said  you  would." 

She  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the  sick-room. 
A  light  burned  at  the  stair-head,  and  she  paused  in 
front  of  it.  Her  beautiful  face,  wet  from  the  snow, 
took  a  grave  expression.  "I  won't  give  him  a  thing 
I  don't  take  first,"  she  said,  opening  the  flask,  which 
yielded  a  strange  thymy  smell,  powerful  as  some 
Eastern  scent,  but  more  natural,  as  it  were.  Joan 
blessed  herself  devoutly  and  put  the  flask  to  her  lips. 
It  held  a  strong  essence,  for  eyes  and  mouth  re- 


106  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

sented  it,  as  they  might  smelling-salts,  and  in  not 
many  seconds  a  pervading  warmth,  accompanied  by 
profuse  perspiration,  declared  its  efficiency,  while  no 
symptom  of  a  threatening  nature  followed.  "I  can 
give  it  now,"  reasoned  the  girl ;  "if  it  harms  the  one 
of  us,  the  other  will  be  no  better."  The  thought 
gleamed  in  her  eyes,  which  had  an  intense  brightness 
when  she  entered  Philip's  room. 

The  nurse,  expectant  but  downcast,  whispered, 
"The  priest  and  the  doctor  have  given  him  up. 
Make  haste  now;  your  lady  will  be  here  before 
long.  Mr.  Edmund  gave  orders  to  be  ready  for 
her  any  minute." 

Philip's  voice  had  sunk,  with  frequent  pauses,  but 
never  kept  still.  When  the  nurse  made  him  sit  up, 
he  turned  his  unmeaning  eyes  toward  Joan,  who 
was  near  the  bed,  her  countenance  glowing  with  a 
life  which  radiated  in  pity  and  tenderness  upon  the 
wasted  man,  stricken  to  death  so  mysteriously.  Nora 
O' Sullivan  supported  him,  and  the  draught  was  ad- 
ministered nine  times  without  mishap,  its  odor  fill- 
ing the  room.  "Now  burn  those  things  my  father 
left  with  you,"  said  the  girl,  putting  into  her  bosom 
the  thin  gold  flask.  They  were  powders  or  dust 
of  some  kind,  for  they  crackled  in  the  fire  and  a 
smoke  as  of  incense  rose  from  them. 

No   trace   was   discernible   of   the   thymy   odor 


THE   MIST  AND  THE   STREAM  loj 

which  characterized  the  healing  draught.  "I  can 
say  it  was  incense,"  remarked  Nora.  Her  companion 
said  nothing.  She  had  become  one  anxious  gaze, 
forgetful  of  her  mistress,  daring  the  chance  of  dis- 
covery; all  her  mind  concentrated  on  Philip's  worn 
lineaments,  which  seemed  to  be  working  under  emo- 
tions as  obscure  as  they  were  mighty.  A  struggle 
had  begun  in  him ;  he  tossed  and  groaned  like  a  man 
whose  pain  is  intolerable.  Her  own  excitement 
wrought  some  fever  into  the  spectacle;  she  hardly 
knew  whether  she  was  drunk  or  sober.  "He  '11  die 
and  I  '11  follow  him,"  was  a  thought  that  flashed 
through  her  brain. 

All  at  once  he  began  crying,  "Oh,  mother,  the 
red  mist — oh,  mother,  the  red  mist !" 

"Och,  great  God  o'  grace,"  cried  Nora,  "the  hand 
of  death  is  upon  him!  'T  is  your  father  poisoned 
him — the  thief  o'  the  world !" 

"Then  I  '11  die  poisoned,  too,"  said  Joan,  throwing 
up  her  hands  in  momentary  despair.  "I  drank  the 
same  drink  before  giving  it." 

The  nurse's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  this  strange 
girl  in  awe  and  uneasy  admiration.  "What  made 
you  do  that?"  she  whispered. 

"To  prove  my  father  was  no  poisoner,"  said  Joan 
O'Dwyer,  proudly. 

The  struggles  of  Philip  called  them  to  his  bedside 


io8  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

again.  "Oh,  mother,  the  red  mist — oh,  mother,  the 
red  mist !"  he  cried  as  at  some  overpowering  vision. 

"Run,  Joan,  run  to  the  tower,  call  his  mother — 
call  Mr.  Edmund.  Let  them  be  here  now,  would 
they  see  him  alive.  Oh,  Joan,  run  with  ye." 

It  needed  none  of  these  incitements  to  set  her  off. 
The  girl,  her  limbs  trembling,  her  lips  and  brain  on 
fire,  was  flying  along  the  interminable  steps,  up  to 
the  High  Room.  She  flung  the  door  open  without 
knocking  and  ran  to  Lady  Liscarroll;  but,  panting 
like  a  hunted  deer,  she  could  only  gasp,  "He  's  dying 
— dying — the  red  mist  is  there." 

"Now,"  said  the  unhappy  mother,  nerving  herself 
as  for  execution,  "Edmund,  come.  I  am  at  last 
free." 

They  rushed  down  in  a  tumult  of  hurrying  feet. 
Joan  followed,  still  clasping  the  gold  vessel  which 
was  to  prove  her  crime  and  bring  it  home  if  he  died 
— and  the  mist  of  doom  had  begun  to  fall  over  him. 
Entering  the  sick-chamber,  she  thought  it  was  full  of 
lights,  amid  which  Philip's  ghastly  face  and  staring 
eyeballs  fascinated  her  as  in  some  sacred  picture. 
His  red  curls  framed  it  uncannily — a  face  never  to 
be  forgotten.  Had  she  poisoned  him  with  her  magic 
golden  flask?  The  heart  within  her  was  bursting. 

Philip  sat  up  without  assistance,  stretching  out 
pallid  hands  for  water.  The  flame  of  thirst  was 


THE   MIST  AND  THE   STREAM  109 

consuming  his  inwards.  Lady  Liscarroll  held  a 
glass  to  her  son's  lips,  from  which  he  drank  eagerly ; 
but  he  suffered  still.  They  were  all  in  that  horrible 
agony  where  the  lookers-on  are  torn  with  a  useless 
compassion,  imbecile  in  the  presence  of  a  pain  it  can- 
not relieve.  Edmund  took  his  cousin's  hand  with  a 
firm  grip;  Nora  and  Joan  dared  not  exchange 
glances,  but  their  consternation  was  so  visible  that 
the  slightest  accident  would  have  betrayed  the  secret 
which  was  rending  their  conscience.  "What  have 
you  been  burning?"  asked  Edmund,  detecting  a  sin- 
gular flavor  in  the  atmosphere. 

"A  few  small  grains  o'  blessed  incense,"  replied 
Nora — her  companion  blushed — "incense,  sir,  to 
sweeten  the  air." 

It  satisfied  him  as  he  knelt,  watching  the  waves  of 
suffering  mount  and  fall,  every  throb  appearing  so 
violent  that  even  Lady  Liscarroll  hoped  it  would  be 
the  last. 

But  hour  thrust  on  hour,  wearily,  and  the  last  was 
not  yet.  Philip  sat  up  or  bent  forward,  shaken  by 
a  power  which  held  him  in  unseen  bonds,  which 
might  have  been  thought  to  play  with  its  victim, 
searching  out  every  nerve  with  the  skill  of  a  prac- 
tised musician  upon  the  strings.  How  long  could  he 
endure  ? 

That  question  poor  Joan  addressed  to  her  heart, 


no  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

wondering  if  the  deadly  mixture  would  have  its 
effect  in  her  own  case,  almost  angry  that  she  felt 
nothing  but  a  glow  and  a  quickened  circulation 
hateful  in  its  unlikeness  to  Philip's  agonizing  strug- 
gles. A  sense  of  pity,  infinite  as  her  remorse,  took 
hold  of  the  girl ;  rather  than  let  him  die  on  these 
coals  of  fire,  she  would  confess — say  it  was  her  do- 
ing— throw  down  the  flask  before  them  as  the  proof 
of  her  guilt.  But  what  would  they  do  to  Cathal? 
The  anguish  of  this  doubt  sent  her  tottering  across 
the  room  to  a  couch,  where  she  fell  prone,  her 
thoughts  one  lurid  tempest;  the  others,  except  Nora 
O' Sullivan,  took  no  notice,  absorbed  in  the  death- 
bed. Nora  was  making  vows  to  all  the  saints,  and 
pilgrimages  in  her  own  mind  to  every  holy  well ;  but 
her  tongue  was  tied. 

A  little  more,  and  Joan  had  certainly  confessed, 
when  she  heard  Sir  Philip  speaking  with  a  voice  new 
to  her,  though  weak  and  even  yet  dreamy.  He  was 
calling  Edmund.  "Do  you  see  the  red  cloud  mov- 
ing off?"  he  inquired. 

"Where?"  answered  his  cousin,  joyful  but  in- 
credulous. 

"That  way,"  said  Philip,  pointing  to  the  window. 

When  the  girl  heard  these  words,  she  sprang  up 
and  came  toward  the  bed.  There  were  numerous 
lights  in  the  sick-chamber,  which  cast  on  her,  as  she 


THE   MIST  AND  THE   STREAM  in 

stood  erect,  a  vivid  gleam.  The  young  man's  eyes 
were  arrested  by  an  apparition  he  had  never  seen, 
rising  out  of  his  fever's  red  mist.  He  sat  still,  ex- 
amining her  face  with  a  grave  curiosity,  which  she 
could  not  help  feeling  too.  They  might  have  been 
alone  in  the  universe,  so  utterly  were  the  others 
blotted  out.  A  long,  deep  gaze  from  his  lately  vis- 
ion-haunted eyes  was  answered  by  one  as  long  and  as 
deep,  but  more  uncertain,  from  hers — the  supreme 
moment  had  arrived.  They  were  all  conscious  of  it, 
and  hung  on  the  sequel. 

"Tell  me  who  that  child  is?"  he  said,  turning  to 
his  cousin. 

"She  is  Joan  O'Dwyer,  the  schoolmaster's  daugh- 
ter," replied  Edmund. 

"I  am  not  dreaming?"  he  asked. 

"No,  thank  God!  It  is  Joan  you  see,  and  Ed- 
mund you  are  talking  to." 

"And  I  am  here,"  said  Lady  Liscarroll,  coming 
forward,  "your  mother,  Philip." 

A  deep  sigh  broke  from  his  lips.  "You — yes,  it  is 
you,"  he  said  despondently.  "I  remember.  Ah, 
I  am  not  in  a  dream." 

"Oh,  surely  not,  sir,"  cried  Joan,  overcome  by  joy 
and  thankfulness ;  "you  have  left  the  red  mist  behind 
you,  please  God." 

"The  mist  is  gone,  and  you  are  in  its  place,"  he 


ii2  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

said  with  a  childlike  simplicity  of  tone.  "I  saw  it 
roll  away,  then  I  saw  you.  Will  you — will  you  stay 
till  I  am  all  right?" 

"As  long  as  I  can  do  you  good,  sir,"  she  said  fer- 
vently. 

"I  will  stay,  too,"  said  his  mother — "stay  to  nurse 
my  son." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  with  cutting  indifference, 
"what  else  could  you  do?  You  are  my  mother. 
But  in  the  High  Room — not  here.  Edmund,  I  gave 
you  a  charge — in  the  High  Room,  I  say." 

He  was  getting  excited  again.  "I  will  go,"  said 
the  lady,  her  eyes  telling  what  she  suffered,  but  no 
other  sign  of  emotion  visible.  "I  am  satisfied  now 
my  son  lives." 

"And  will  live,"  said  Joan,  making  as  to  go  with 
her. 

But  Philip  called  to  the  girl.  "Wait,  you  must 
not  leave  me.  Keep  the  red  mist  away." 

Edmund  took  his  aunt  back  to  her  prison.  The 
other  women  sat  up  till  morning  in  Philip's  room, 
and  saw  him  sink  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 


CHAPTER  IX 

FANCY   PAINTING 

THIS  was  that  amazing  cure  of  Philip  Lis- 
carroll,  destined  to  have  such  consequences 
for  all  concerned.  O'Dwyer's  "Eleleu"  of  triumph 
may  be  imagined.  "And  so,"  he  cried,  smiting  his 
thigh  in  ecstasy  when  his  daughter  announced  it, 
under  the  hazel  branches  where  she  had  taken  from 
him  the  wonder-working  draught — "and  so  the  ould 
wizard  can  do  what  the  omniscient  leviathan  of  sci- 
ence from  Cork,  let  alone  Driscoll,  the  horse-doc- 
tor, could  not  do — they  must  give  it  up  to  him! 
Rare  as  the  gold  is  of  that  serpent-adorned  flask — 
but  keep  it,  alanna,  't  is  better  with  you  than 
me — I  'd  bestow  it  willingly  to  taunt  and  gibe  at 
these  sons  of  ^sculapius  and  make  a  holy  show  of 
the  two  of  them." 

"  'T  would  not  be  lawful  nor  right,"  answered 
Joan,  tremulously.  "Between  ourselves  and  Nora 
the  secret  must  remain." 

"I  'm  not  to  acquaint  Mr.  Edmund  with  my  finest 

8  113 


ii4  THE   WIZARD'S    KNOT 

miracle?  For  a  miracle  it  is  all  out.  What  would 
he  do  to  us?" 

"He  's  the  red  lightning  itself  if  he  do  be  vexed, 
and  Nora  bid  me  warn  you  he  gave  no  permission  for 
the  cure;  't  is  letting  on  she  was." 

Cathal  groaned  aloud.  "Until  hell  be  heaven, 
until  the  sun  hide  its  light,  until  the  stars  fall  from 
the  sky,  women  will  remain  as  we  have  stated ! 
True  for  you,  Cormac  MacArt,  true  for  you.  But 
still,  he  is  cured." 

"Would  they  allow  it  was  the  drink  I  gave  that 
healed  Sir  Philip?"  said  Joan.  "They  would  sooner 
see  him  laid  out  any  day — I  mane  the  doctors  and 
the  quality.  You  'd  get  a  bad  name,  father,  and  I  'd 
be  driven  from  the  castle — and  my  white  shillings,  I 
might  go  look  for  them  in  the  Pool  a  Phouka." 

He  rubbed  his  forehead  with  a  wise  finger.  "Had 
I  a  thumb  to  bite  like  Fionn  MacCumhal,  I  'd  know 
what  was  to  be  done  next,"  he  said.  "But  I  will 
maintain  against  all  pill-compounders,  mercurial 
adepts,  and  blood-suckers,  that  they  never  healed  a 
man  fairy-struck  as  I  did." 

"Sir  Phil  came  by  his  hurt  that  way?"  inquired 
Joan,  weaving  about  the  young  master  a  web  of 
romance  into  which  many  golden  threads  were  shot. 

Her  father  nodded  his  gray  head  energetically. 
"Leaping  the  fence  of  Rathmorna  he  got  the  hurt," 


FANCY   PAINTING  115 

said  Cathal,  "in  the  first  week  of  November  when  the 
fairy-power  is  strong.  There  's  not  a  metal  that  is 
dug,  nor  a  plant  that  grows,  would  make  him  all 
smooth  again  but  the  herbs  of  price  and  virtue  I  ad- 
ministered. Will  I  hould  my  tongue  on  it  for  your 
sake,  Joan?  But  if  I  do,  the  thing  itself  will  let  a 
screech  out  of  it.  For,  by  rights,  the  sick  man 
should  be  under  the  sod  now." 

The  schoolmaster  guessed  shrewdly.  Eyes  had 
been  watching  Renmore  Castle,  tongues  had  wagged 
in  many  mouths,  since  the  hour  which  brought 
Philip  home  in  a  trance  and  was  followed  by  his 
mother's  apparition  at  dead  of  night.  A  compli- 
cation of  events  so  tragic  was  not  made  for  silence. 
Dr.  Driscoll  and  his  wife  hinted  a  thousand  times 
more  than  they  spoke.  But  the  legend  was  growing 
of  a  son  on  his  death-bed  who  rose  to  lock  the  tower 
doors  behind  which  his  wicked  mother  was  kept  in 
durance,  and  from  which  she  had  attempted  to  es- 
cape, when  he  thrust  her  back  again.  In  that  law- 
less fold  of  the  country  between  hills  and  sea,  such 
things  had  taken  place — the  shadowy  ruins,  caves  of 
ocean,  glens  concealing  deep,  murderous  lakes,  had 
their  stories,  a  red  mark  across  them,  of  abductions, 
imprisonments,  disappearances  sudden  and  final. 
Who  could  say  what  Lady  Liscarroll  had  done?  or 
what  would  now  be  done  to  her?  Round  the  cabin 


n6  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

fire  strange  possibilities  were  argued  by  a  people  in 
love  with  the  marvelous,  who  mixed  worlds  seen 
and  unseen  into  an  alchemist-cloud  of  many-colored 
vapor.  In  mansions  where  the  lady  had  formerly 
visited,  her  guilt  and  her  son's  shame  were  often 
touched  upon  in  the  endless  keys  of  human  feeling 
— earnest,  light,  satirical,  sympathetic.  Friends 
inquiring  about  Philip  at  Renmore  looked  up  curi- 
ously toward  the  High  Room,  but  never  set  eyes  on 
the  supposed  captive.  That  she  was  living  Dr.  Dris- 
coll  knew  and  asserted,  with  an  undercurrent  of  sug- 
gestion— "How  long?  The  raven  might  inform  us 
that  sits  croaking  above  her  head,  poor  woman !" 

"You  don't  tell  me,  doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Hapgood 
of  Derryvore,  rustling  her  silks  and  fingering  her 
massy  gold  chain,  "that  her  son  and  his  cousin — 
haughty  young  men  both — would  take  the  life  of 
that  sinful  woman?"  Mrs.  Hapgood  was  not  a 
sinner  herself,  and  could  pile  a  cairn  of  stones  upon 
her  erring  sister's  head,  in  Christian  charity. 

"Murder,  ma'am,  is  an  actionable  word,"  an- 
swered Driscoll,  sucking  his  smoky  lips ;  "I  would  n't 
say  myself  that  Lady  Liscarroll  was  under  lock  and 
key.  But  give  her  a  morning  call,"  he  went  on, 
laughing  boisterously,  "and  see  if  they  '11  let  you  in." 

The  virtue  of  this  lady,  which  some  call  brazen, 
took  alarm.  "I  shall  pay  no  visits  at  Renmore  till 


FANCY   PAINTING  117 

that  woman  quits  the  house  or  clears  her  character," 
said  she.  "As  soon  as  I  was  told  of  her  arrival,  I  laid 
my  commands  on  Julia  to  have  no  more  dealings 
with  Nora  O' Sullivan,  though  she  is  an  old  servant 
of  ours,  married  from  Derryvore." 

"And  Master  Will — what  is  he  to  do?  If  Sir 
Philip  had  a  friend,  it  was  your  son,"  said  Driscoll, 
going  on  with  his  joke. 

"Master  Will  can  take  care  of  himself,"  replied 
his  mother;  "a  lone  woman  like  me,  Dr.  Driscoll," 
sighing  pathetically,  "has  little  influence  over  these 
wild  young  men." 

"I  think  Lady  Liscarroll  an  injured  person,"  said 
the  doctor,  rising  to  leave;  "Mrs.  Driscoll  regards 
her  as  I  do  and  always  did.  Anyhow,  she  has  no 
right  to  be  in  prison  without  a  magistrate's  warrant 
— if  't  is  in  prison  she  is.  Now  Sir  Philip  has  got  the 
better  of  his  illness — thanks  to  me,  you  say,  ma'am  ? 
Well,  we  won't  boast;  maybe  such  a  recovery  is 
creditable  to  a  poor  country  surgeon — but  he  is 
nearly  over  it,  and  we  '11  surely  get  light  on  the 
inside  of  Renmore." 

"I  should  wish  it  for  all  our  sakes,"  said  Mrs. 
Hapgood.  But  that  she  meant  Julia  to  become  a 
virtuous  Lady  Liscarroll  and  reduce  the  impenitent 
to  mere  dowagership  was  no  secret  to  the  doctor; 
on  the  string  of  that  maternal  ambition  he  had  been 


n8  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

playing  all  the  while.  He  delighted  in  setting  dogs 
to  fight  and  people  by  the  ears.  The  baronet  was 
getting  well;  Driscoll,  therefore,  felt  no  scruple  in 
hating  him  worse  than  ever. 

As  for  Master  Will  Hapgood,  he  was  a  powerful 
young  fellow  of  two-and-twenty,  with  sparkling 
black  eyes,  a  black  head  of  bushy  hair,  a  fresh  com- 
plexion and  big  bones,  and  he  was  as  wild  as  a  colt. 
His  sister,  Julia,  the  hoyden,  took  after  him — she 
was  large,  dark,  hot-tempered,  unmanageable.  The 
lad's  voice  had  a  quarrelsome  note ;  Julia  softened  it 
to  girlish  vivacity,  but  showed  her  white  teeth  a  little 
too  often  for  perfect  breeding.  Their  mother  read 
the  Bible,  sowed  tracts  broadcast,  was  justified  in 
her  own  eyes,  and  always  spoke  as  if  Derryvore  lay 
in  Tongataboo.  Her  children  read  nothing  what- 
ever, coaxed  and  petted  their  horses,  lived  in  or  about 
the  stables  half  the  day,  rode  at  a  breakneck  pace, 
and  chose  their  friends  on  the  hunting  field.  Sport 
is  a  passion  in  Ireland,  not  a  pastime;  in  Will's  case 
it  had  its  complications  of  drinking,  card-playing, 
going  to  fairs  and  races,  and  regretting  that  he  could 
not  exchange  shots  with  a  neighbor  when  his  blood 
was  up.  He  would  have  envied  Phil  Liscarroll  his 
horsemanship  had  envy  been  Will's  fault ;  he  did  not 
grudge  him  Julia's  hand  in  prospect,  though  Ren- 
more  was  bled  white  by  long  leases  still  to  run  out, 


FANCY   PAINTING  119 

and  its  encumbrances  almost  broke  its  back.  So  they 
were,  Phil  and  Will,  as  youths  are  wont  to  be;  and 
there  did  not  exist  the  slightest  confidence  between 
them.  Phil  kept  his  mind  to  himself;  Will  had 
hitherto  none  worth  keeping.  He  was  a  centaur  with- 
out brains,  galloping  through  life  in  a  steeplechase. 

Julia,  nettled  but  obedient,  had  ridden  in  the  op- 
posite direction  to  Renmore  since  that  unlucky 
November  night.  Her  brother  called  every  week, 
sat  with  Edmund,  but  could  not  be  admitted  to  Phil's 
darkened  chamber.  As  he  passed  in  and  out,  voices 
crooned  their  mysterious  tale  of  the  lady  in  the  old 
castle,  solitary,  with  a  cloud  upon  her  fair  face;  the 
beauty  of  this  woman,  injured  or  injuring,  was  com- 
mon talk.  Will  had.  never  seen  her  since  child- 
hood; but  he  remembered  her  vividly,  and  with  a 
boy's  gratitude  for  something  she  had  once  done  to 
comfort  him  in  a  desperate  trouble.  He  was  wait- 
ing to  offer  such  help  as  the  situation  might  demand : 
his  sister's  future  was  perhaps  at  stake,  but  a  witch- 
ing image  of  some  lovely  evil  creature  floated  into 
his  imagination  when  he  glanced  at  the  tower,  and 
came  across  his  rare  dreams.  Strict  bringing  up 
had  given  him  a  surfeit  of  the  Catechism — yet  it  was 
rather  his  dull  fancy  that  shook  itself  at  the  unusual, 
the  dramatic  strength  of  a  figure  revealed  in  beauty 
and  loneliness. 


120  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

Of  all  which  Will  Hapgood  was  profoundly  un- 
aware, though  it  had  begun  to  act  upon  him,  as  a 
slow  fire  sweetens  malt,  by  imperceptible  degrees. 
His  mother's  readiness  to  believe  the  worst  made  him 
incline  to  welcome  that  worst  as  not  so  bad  after 
all.  Driscoll,  on  the  other  hand,  irritated  his  curi- 
osity by  hints  and  surmises  in  the  lady's  favor,  tend- 
ing to  accuse  her  late  husband  of  moody  indifference 
toward  his  wife,  and  her  son  of  a  harshness  that 
seemed  not  unlike  Sir  Philip.  The  High  Room  with 
its  inmate  put  on  a  clear  and  solid  appearance,  almost 
theatrically  distinct,  in  the  lad's  mind.  Had  it  been 
a  play,  he  would  certainly  have  taken  tickets  for  it. 

He  was  fated  to  get  free  admission,  unless  pay- 
ment should  be  asked  when  the  curtain  came  down 
— which  happens  outside  the  theater  pretty  often. 
"On  a  day  of  the  days,"  mild  and  spring-like,  a 
breeze  drawing  exquisite  patterns  on  the  light-blue 
surface  of  ocean,  the  sun  ducking  and  diving  among 
silver-weed  cast  about  the  sky,  Will  Hapgood  was 
fishing  a  little  way  out  in  the  long,  indented  Firth 
of  Renmore.  His  boatman,  expert  at  this  game, 
we  know  already ;  he  was  that  Felim  O'Riordan  who, 
had  poor  Joan  but  a  cow's  grass,  would,  in  his  own 
opinion,  have  been  matchmaking  with  her  long  ago. 
The  salmon-trout  were  greedily  devouring  the  sweet 
bait ;  these  two  youths  had  made  their  haul  and  were 


FANCY   PAINTING  121 

happy  under  the  fair  sky,  the  caressing  breeze — 
rightly  tuned  if  Love  came  down  along  the  strand  or 
leaped  into  their  skiff.  They  spoke  little — what 
need  to  speak? 

While  they  were  thus  fishing  happiness  to  them- 
selves from  the  great  deep,  it  chanced  that  Felim 
sent  his  long  sight  into  the  air,  vacantly,  for  the 
pleasure  of  a  spectacle  so  vast.  Suddenly  it  was  ar- 
rested. "What  are  you  looking  at,  O'Riordan?" 
asked  Hapgood. 

"Do  you  see  the  ould  tower  of  Renmore  ?"  he  an- 
swered, his  eyes  still  uplifted. 

Will  gave  a  glance  that  way.  "People  on  the 
roof,"  said  he ;  "surely  not  strangers." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Felim,  "or  not  all  three  of 
them.  Two  I  know,  at  all  events.  Look,  Mr.  Wrill 
— there  's  Sir  Philip,  praise  be  to  God,  he  is  the  ould 
three  and  fourpence  again — as  well  as  ever — and 
Joan,  the  schoolmaster's  cailin  deas,  with  her  spin- 
ning-wheel, if  you  plaise.  Is  it  in  her  own  cabin 
she  is?" 

"But  the  tall  woman  in  black — tall  against  the 
sky,"  exclaimed  Will,  a  shiver  going  through  him, 
"who  is  she?" 

"Your  line  is  broke  and  the  fish  gone  with  the 
bait,  on  account  of  her,"  said  Felim,  blazing  up. 
"What  ails  you,  sir?" 


"Can  that  be  Lady  Liscarroll?"  said  the  youth, 
letting  his  rod  fall  into  the  water.  The  accident 
pulled  up  his  thoughts  violently ;  it  was  the  business 
of  the  next  five  minutes  to  recover  his  costly  fishing- 
tackle,  floated  on  by  the  current.  These  manoeuvers 
brought  them  nearer  in,  so  that  the  castle,  rising 
above  them,  was  more  within  sight.  Hapgood  made 
believe  to  go  on  with  his  trout-catching;  but  the 
dialogue  which  he  kept  up  all  along  showed  in  what 
direction  his  fancy  had  taken  wing. 

"No  person  seen  her  in  the  open  since  she  re- 
turned," said  Felim ;  "she  is  under  bonds,  surely,  to 
God.  But  't  is  better  than  to  make  a  bloody  killing 
of  her,  as  another  son  would  do — the  Hag  of  the 
Gray  Eyes  they  call  her,  and  a  hag  she  is." 

"See  if  you  can  make  her  out  with  this  glass," 
answered  Will,  handing  him  a  telescope,  "my  sight  is 
cloudy  this  morning." 

Felim  adjusted  the  instrument,  while  his  master 
seemed  busy  about  the  tackle.  "  'T  is  a  powerful 
glass,"  said  the  fisherman;  "I  could  n't  see  plainer 
was  I  by  the  side  of  them  in  the  sky  above.  There  's 
Joan,  seated  like  a  queen,  her  spinning-wheel  in  front 
of  her,  and  the  white  fingers  drawing  the  thread,  as 
't  were  playing  on  the  harp." 

"But  the  other  woman — the  lady?"  said  Will,  not 
daring  to  lift  his  eyes,  speaking  in  an  oddly  muffled 
tone. 


FANCY   PAINTING  123 

"Wait  a  while  now  till  I  see  her  full  in  the  face. 
She  is  moving  quick  backward  and  forward,  like 
the  shuttle  you  'd  be  throwing.  Ah,  stand  still,  if 
't  is  yourself,  my  lady !  She  is  eying  our  boat,  I  '11 
engage.  Widow's  weeds  and  yellow  hair,  and  a 
shape  as  straight  as  a  dart." 

"It  must  be,"  said  Will  to  himself,  all  manner  of 
confused  but  rich  emotions  taking  possession  of  him 
— he  could  never  have  said  which  was  uppermost, 
but  the  result  appeared  to  be  fascination. 

"Would  you  look  through  the  spy-glass  yourself, 
sir?"  Felim  went  on.  "But  what  has  taken  your 
eyes  from  you  ?  There  's  the  second  salmon  we  lost 
this  day!" 

Will  threw  him  the  rod.  "Hook  him,  then,"  he 
cried,  "and  give  me  the  telescope." 

He  felt  like  facing  cannon.  His  eyelids  burned, 
his  pulse  bounded.  Then  La  Belle  Dame  Sans 
Merci  swam  into  his  horizon,  fair  and  sad.  her  long 
draperies  floating,  her  motions  graceful  but  decided. 
A  mist  dimmed  the  apparition ;  Will  pitched  his  spy- 
glass into  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  strained  his 
eyes  in  a  long  examination  of  the  figures  moving  to 
and  fro  on  the  castle  roof. 

"They  are  out  tasting  the  blessed  air  and  sun," 
remarked  O'Riordan;  "but  we  are  better  off,  as  it  is. 
They  '11  catch  no  salmon  from  the  tower.  I  have 
him,  sir — I  have  him — lind  a  hand  now  to  the  sculls 


124  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

while  I  play  the  monster.  He  weighs  sixteen  pounds 
if  he  's  an  ounce." 

For  twenty  minutes  they  were  hard  at  it,  and  the 
excitement,  hot  in  master  and  man,  gave  Will's  im- 
agination a  kindling  which  marked  the  fatal  hour. 
His  blood,  not  chill  at  any  time,  caught  heat  from 
the  chase,  the  sense  of  spring,  the  acted  story  above 
on  that  embattled  height.  Love  was  leaping  to  the 
centaur's  back — and  would  ride  him  headlong — an 
insane  lad's  love  for  his  own  fancy.  These  unread, 
inarticulate  natures  take  the  infection  of  romance 
without  suspecting  it ;  they  are  such  children  as  never 
look  behind  the  show  or  dream  of  rags  and  tinsel 
making  its  splendor.  One  spark  was  wanting,  and 
Will's  heart  would  be  in  the  flames.  It  flew  down 
upon  him  when  their  prey  was  landed  and  they  rest- 
ing on  their  oars. 

Joan  at  the  spinning-wheel  had  begun  to  sing  one 
of  her  Irish  songs,  clear  and  sweet,  which  the  breeze 
blew  to  them  in  snatches — little  golden  drops,  or 
gleams  of  sunshine,  falling  upon  their  senses,  making 
them  drunk  with  melody. 

"Hark  now,"  said  Felim,  "did  any  man  hear  music 
in  his  sleep  like  that?"  They  listened  in  a  great 
stillness.  "She  is  singing,  'O  youth  of  the  ring- 
lets, my  false  love!'  'T  would  melt  the  heart  in 
your  bosom  with  compassion,"  he  whispered. 


FANCY   PAINTING  125 

His  master  signed  to  him  to  keep  quiet.  Will  did 
not  know  much  of  the  words,  but  the  air  was  fa- 
miliar, plaintive  and  enticing  in  its  forlorn  sim- 
plicity. 

Joan  sang,  "Oh,  I  used  to  think,  my  storeen,  you 
were  the  sun  and  moon;  and  after  that  I  used  to 
think  you  were  the  snow  on  the  hill,  or  the  bright 
light  of  God,  and  the  star  of  knowledge,  going  be- 
fore and  behind  me." 

She  sang  of  the  youth's  broken  promises  with  a 
trill  of  sorrowful  laughter  which  died  into  tears. 
"Satins  and  silks  you  promised  me,  head-dress  and 
high-heeled  shoes;  and  to  follow  after  me,  though 
you  should  swim  the  ocean.  Not  like  that  am  I 
now — I  am  a  bush  in  the  gap  of  a  wall — every  noon 
and  morning  I  do  be  seeing  but  this  house  of  my 
father — and  I  alone." 

With  a  pathos,  with  a  passion,  with  the  wild  heart 
of  her  people,  Joan  sang.  The  last  words,  "and  I 
alone,"  which  do  not  occur  in  this  touching  lament, 
she  added,  as  from  a  store  of  grief  known  to  her- 
self; and  only  those  who  have  heard  in  youth  the 
Celtic  spoken  by  their  beloved  will  be  capable  of 
feeling  what  a  sweet  sadness  lurks  in  this  refrain, 
am  aonar!  Alone,  alone — was  she  hinting  at  a  love 
unreturned,  or  showing  its  bright  beam  on  her  youth- 
ful wings?  But  Will  Hapgood  had  no  eyes  except 


i26  THE   WIZARD'S    KNOT 

for  the  proud  lady  that  stood  listening,  and  to  her 
strange  history  he  fitted  the  music.  In  the  free  air 
a  captive ;  by  her  son's  side,  yet  divided ;  if,  as  the  tale 
ran — whether  false  or  true — she  ever  had  a  lover, 
he  was  dead  and  gone.  Alone,  alone  she  seemed, 
that  should  be  Queen  of  the  World. 

How  could  he  reach  her?  By  what  ladder  of 
magic  mount  to  her?  Unless  strong  desire  could 
cleave  the  air,  she  was  separated  from  him  as  by  a 
thousand  leagues  of  fire.  Philip,  standing  apart,  in 
some  tired  mood  of  convalescence,  rigid  as  the  statue 
of  the  Commander,  would  wake  and  strike  were  that 
prison  door  attempted,  of  which  he  held  the  keys. 
No  one  had  broken  through  his  reserve,  least  of  all 
Will,  who  knew  neither  stratagem  nor  sleight-of- 
hand,  but  rode  across  country,  taking  bush  and  bog, 
stream  and  stone  wall,  as  they  came  in  his  way.  But 
the  impossible  adventure  drew  him.  While  Joan 
sang,  the  statue  of  the  Commander  stood  fixed  in 
silence ;  the  lady  gazed  abroad  from  the  battlements, 
like  Sister  Anne,  seeking  deliverance. 

Among  the  fishing-boats  out  on  the  waters,  Lady 
Liscarroll  had  observed  one  which,  when  it  had 
drawn  in  near  the  castle,  remained  motionless,  the 
two  figures  in  it  held  by  Joan's  clear  singing.  She 
leaned  over  the  edge  in  an  idle  humor,  and  so  lean- 
ing dropped  a  lace  handkerchief  from  her  hand  into 


FANCY   PAINTING  127 

the  waves  underneath.  It  floated  like  some  live 
thing  blown  by  the  wind  toward  Will  Hapgood's 
boat,  a  white  messenger,  a  question  or  a  signal,  such 
as  the  shipwrecked  send  forth  on  chance.  One  mo- 
ment he  saw  it,  the  next  he  was  in  the  water.  Felim 
screamed;  was  the  young  master  mad?  Perhaps; 
but  he  had  clutched  the  token,  drawn  a  long  breath, 
and  swum,  happy  as  a  seal  in  sunshine,  to  the  strand 
at  no  great  distance. 

"Pull  in  and  take  me  off,"  he  shouted  merrily  to 
O'Riordan;  "I  have  had  a  ducking." 

"And  you  came  near  drowning,"  said  Felim. 

"  'T  is  equal  to  me,"  answered  Will  in  Irish. 
"Now  row  home." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    FORBIDDEN    DOOR 

WHEN  a  man  is  mad  there  is  no  reasoningwith 
him,  but  he  has  often  a  way  of  reasoning 
with  himself — an  insane  logic,  yet  straight  from  the 
premises.  Cathal,  after  this  story  had  run  its  course, 
used  to  say  of  Will  Hapgood  that  he  resembled  Fer- 
gus of  the  children  of  Leidhe,  who  was  so  smitten 
and  spellbound  by  the  breath  of  the  monstrous 
woman  in  Lough  Rury  that  he  grew  squint-eyed  and 
crook-backed,  "his  mouth  twisted  round  to  his  poll," 
and  he,  under  that  glamour,  was  not  aware  of  it. 
But  while  the  shapes  of  things  were  false  about  him, 
Will  understood  from  the  first  what  he  intended  to 
do.  "Liscarroll  shall  have  fair  warning,"  he  mut- 
tered "once,  not  twice.  Then  he  may  lay  the  blame 
where  he  likes." 

A  singular  chance,  of  which  he  heard  from  Nora 
O' Sullivan,  struck  him  as  furnishing  the  happy  pro- 
logue to  his  entrance  on  the  stage.  What  was  it? 

All  in  good  time,  reader.     Several  days  passed  after 

128 


THE   FORBIDDEN    DOOR  129 

the  fishing  expedition,  and  Will  went  up  to  Ren- 
more,  resolute,  but  outwardly  unconcerned,  the  white 
token  in  his  pocket.  Sir  Philip  was  cleaning  a  gun 
in  the  hall  when  he  arrived.  To  cut  a  long  story 
short,  young  Hapgood  brought  out  the  handkerchief, 
much  as  he  would  have  taken  a  fence,  with  teeth  set 
and  a  catch  in  his  breath,  and  explained  on  what 
errand  he  was  there.  "I  found  this  a  few  days  back 
down  by  the  strand,"  said  he.  "It  has  the  Lis- 
carroll  crest.  In  fact,  I — would  it  be  Lady  Lis- 
carroll's?" 

"I  will  give  it  to  her,"  said  Philip,  stuffing  it  into 
his  belt  rather  curtly.  "Thanks." 

"Please  say  I  found  it,"  continued  Will,  "and — 
and — my  mother  would  be  happy  to  call  on  yours, 
now  she  is  at  home.  She  sends  her  compliments." 

"Thanks  again,"  said  the  baronet,  with  freezing 
politeness,  "it  is  quite  unnecessary.  My  mother 
does  not  see  visitors." 

"No?  My  mother  will  be  so  sorry.  She  was 
told  that  Miss  O'Connor  had  paid  a  long  visit  last 
week  to  Lady  Liscarroll.  So  she  thought — " 

"Who,  in  the  devil's  name — ?"  broke  in  Phil,  his 
color  mounting,  but  he  pulled  up  short,  Will  re- 
garding him  closely.  "Tush !  it  is  all  old 
women's  chatter.  My  dear  fellow,  let  us  drop  the 
subject." 

9 


130  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"Then  Miss  O'Connor  did  get  across  the  five- 
barred  gate,"  insisted  Will. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  the  other,  rubbing 
away  at  his  fowling-piece. 

"To  offer  you  a  fool's  advice,"  said  Will,  clapping 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Consider  it  offered,  and  let  us  talk  of  something 
else." 

"Now,  Phil,  just  take  an  observation  of  me;  did 
I  come  here  to  quarrel  with  you?"  said  Hapgood, 
seating  himself  where  the  light  fell  on  his  big  fair 
face. 

"It  looks  damned  like  it,"  answered  the  baronet, 
grounding  his  weapon  with  a  clatter. 

"Looks,  but  is  n't.  Phil,  my  lad,  had  n't  you  better 
thank  me  for  talking  straight,  when  the  whole 
country  talks  behind  your  back  ?  I  say  Miss  Lisaveta 
has  given  you  the  very  chance  you  wanted,  but  could 
never  have  made.  That 's  all  right.  In  your  place 
I  would  have  done  the  same.  But  the  consign  is 
forced.  Let  your  prisoner  out." 

The  man  in  front  of  him  held  that  fowling-piece 
dangerously  high.  Would  it  come  smashing  down 
on  Will  Hapgood  the  next  minute  ?  He  had  spoken 
rudely  and  crudely,  with  intention.  There  was  a 
frightful  dizziness  in  Phil's  mind,  hovering  like  a 
hawk  on  the  strike,  but  uncertain,  when  once  more 


THE   FORBIDDEN    DOOR  131 

he  let  the  gun  drop  and  answered,  keeping  down 
his  temper,  "We  will  say  you  mean  well — you  speak 
as  a  friend.  I  can't  take  advice  in  this  matter,  that 's 
all." 

"But  you  can — don't  be  offended.  Phil — you  must. 
There  's  the  law,  and  county  opinion,  and — suppose 
Lady  Liscarroll  were  to  die  up  in  your  old  donjon? 
It  would  be  murder." 

"It  would  be  freedom,"  said  the  unhappy -young 
man,  in  broken  accents.  "I  tell  you,  Hapgood,  since 
you  force  me  to  talk,  one  of  us  will  have  to  die,  my 
mother  or  myself." 

"No,  no,  that  is  your  delusion.  Quite  absurd, 
my  dear  lad.  Give  her  liberty  and  wash  your  hands 
of  the  affair.  Who  will  blame  you?" 

The  baronet  threw  a  foreboding  glance  at  him. 
"She  will  betray  more  men,"  he  said  gloomily. 
"Edmund  has  no  hand  in  what  I  am  doing,  but  he 
agrees  with  me.  She  is  a  woman  not  to  be  trusted 
out  of  my  sight." 

"You  will  kill  yourself  and  do  her  no  good," 
answered  Will,  standing  up.  "I  came  to  warn  you ; 
honestly — aboveboard.  You  are  not  to  be  warned  ? 
But  don't  forget  I  warned  you." 

It  was  uttered  with  equal  heat  and  insolence 
which,  had  Philip  not  been  wrapped  up  in  his  own 
griefs,  ought  to  have  given  him  the  alert.  He 


i32  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

noticed  merely  that  Will  spoke  as  the  fire-eater  he 
would  like  to  be,  and  let  it  go  by.  Hapgood  was 
a  bit  of  a  bully ;  it  did  not  signify — what  did,  when 
the  world  was  out  of  joint? 

"Well,  I  -have  restored  the  handkerchief,  and 
we  're  always  friends,  eh,  old  boy?"  said  Will,  as 
the  baronet  would  not  answer. 

"Always  friends,"  replied  Phil,  not  looking  up, 
but  holding  out  his  hand  by  way  of  farewell.  On 
these  terms  they  parted.  "He  's  more  of  a  fool  than 
I  guessed,"  thought  each  of  the  other,  reflecting  on 
their  interview. 

Had  Liscarroll  known  everything,  he  would  have 
called  Hapgood  a  liar  into  the  bargain.  The  austere 
mistress  of  Derryvore  had  sent  no  compliments,  pro- 
posed no  calling  on  the  gray-eyed  witch,  her  ab- 
horrence from  of  old.  It  was  Will  who  aimed  this 
random  shaft,  reckoning  he  could  follow  it  up  with 
a  second,  and  persuade  his  mother  that  Lady  Lis- 
carroll was  waiting  for  her  on  what  O'Dwyer  termed 
"The  Mount  of  Subsequent  Repentance." 

To  unload  her  stock  of  tracts  Mrs.  Hapgood 
would  have  gone  anywhere,  upward  or  downward. 
She  had  pressed  those  tracts  on  the  wizard  himself 
so  vehemently  that,  between  his  wrath  and  his  sense 
of  what  was  due  to  the  weaker  vessel,  he  could  only 
rout  her  with  a  Greek  quotation,  "Far  from  shame 


THE   FORBIDDEN   DOOR  133 

dwells  that  cruel  goddess."  But  in  his  native  tongue 
he  growled,  "If  I  had  you  and  your  tracts,  madam, 
in  my  right  hand,  't  is  n't  long  till  I  'd  make  shivers 
and  shives  of  what  I  was  carrying."  Still,  as  he 
said  among  friends,  there  was  "an  element  of  face- 
tiousness"  in  Mrs.  Hapgood's  Tongataboo  mission- 
ary ways,  which  puckered  his  features  into  a  grin, 
and  her  irreverent  son  was  now  quick  to  make  his 
profit  of  that  wasted  zeal.  Could  she  also  abandon 
Miss  O'Connor  to  the  wiles  of  the  enemy?  Another 
brand  to  snatch  from  the  burning,  after  that  pro- 
longed visit !  He  would  let  fly  his  second  arrow. 

Lisaveta,  with  the  peculiar  obstinacy  of  the  gentle 
Slav  temper,  which  is  that  of  the  fanatic  or  the  saint, 
had  not  yielded  an  inch  to  Edmund's  arguments. 
"She  feared  no  evil,  for  she  knew  no  sin."  An  in- 
tense pity  overcame  her  when  she  pictured  the  lone- 
some castle,  the  mother  like  some  forlorn  house- 
haunting  spirit,  the  young  man  half  dead  with 
sorrow  and  watching.  Why  should  she  not  strike 
in  to  help  them  ?  Mrs.  Hapgood's  mailed  virtue  she 
would  have  laughed  out  of  countenance ;  yet  Lisaveta 
seemed  fresh  and  fragrant  as  the  red  rose,  of  which 
her  Puritan  acquaintance  gloried  in  displaying  only 
the  sharpest  spines.  It  had  fallen  out,  accordingly — 
since  our  wishes  make  our  opportunities — that  Miss 
O'Connor,  driving  by  Renmore  on  an  afternoon,  had 


i34  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

got  inside  the  charmed  circle  without  any  one's 
consent. 

When  she  had  stopped  at  the  castle  gate  to  inquire 
about  Philip's  health,  the  steward,  thinking  his  mas- 
ter at  home,  went  searching  after  him.  Lisaveta, 
who  had  come  into  the  hall,  was  lingering  there  in 
admiration,  as  often  before,  of  its  old  oak  roof,  its 
trophies  of  stags'  horns,  and  its  romantic  chiaros- 
curo, when  a  girl  came  out  above  on  the  Floren- 
tine staircase — a  girl  she  had  not  seen  for  months. 
She  ran  up  instantly  and  took  Joan  in  her  arms.  The 
heavy  door  leading  to  the  tower  was  open,  and  there 
stood  the  timid  warder,  shy  and  affectionate,  with 
its  key  in  her  hand.  "Now  or  never,"  thought  Lis- 
aveta. That  old  fairy-tale  came  into  her  mind  of  a 
forbidden  room  in  a  lofty  turret,  a  witch  at  the  spin- 
ning-wheel, a  naughty  maiden  running  up  the  stairs 
in  quest  of  adventure.  "For  God's  sake,  don't!" 
cried  Joan,  putting  the  key  in  the  door.  It  was  too 
late.  The  wilful  Rosebloom  had  sprung  up  two 
steps  at  a  time. 

Her  young  friend  flew  after,  arriving  just  as  Lisa- 
veta had  seen  the  door  of  the  High  Room  flung  wide 
and  a  dark  figure  standing  on  the  threshold.  "  'T  is 
Miss  O'Connor  from  Airgead  Ross,"  exclaimed 
Joan,  doing  the  honors  out  of  breath.  Lady  Lis- 
carroll  laughed  and  caught  her  visitor  by  the  hand. 


THE   FORBIDDEN   DOOR  135 

"Welcome  and  welcome  again,"  she  cried,  leading 
her  in.  "You  come  too,  my  dear  child,"  as  her  at- 
tendant was  hesitating,  "we  shall  talk  no  secrets; 
indeed,  I  have  been  solitary  so  long  I  may  want  an 
interpreter." 

All  this  was  said  lightly  and  airily,  persuasive  as 
a  lark's  trill,  yet  with  the  manner  of  the  great 
world.  Miss  O'Connor  smiled  when  she  saw  the 
spinning-wheel.  "Not  mine,"  said  Lady  Liscarroll. 
"It  is  Joan  that  spins  and  sings.  I  do  nothing  but 
mope  or  listen.  So  you  are  Charlie  O'Connor's 
daughter.  Tell  me  about  him — about  yourself. 
Take  that  chair  and  talk." 

But  she  talked — the  beautiful  witch — that  Lis- 
aveta  might  be  feeling  more  at  home.  They  sat  by 
the  window,  and  the  dove-like  murmurs  of  the  sea 
filled  up  the  pauses  in  a  conversation  so  suddenly 
improvised.  On  both  sides  it  was  a  reconnaissance 
in  force.  The  Russian  girl  had  expected  beauty 
worn  by  grief;  she  saw  the  splendid  youth  which 
women  artists  know  how  to  preserve  into  middle 
years.  A  charm  of  style,  expression,  sentiment, 
which  amazed  her — quite  irresistible.  And  all  the 
graces  that  come  with  knowledge  of  life,  with  travel, 
with  a  certain  air  of  distinction  not  often  English, 
with  dainty  French  phrases  caught  on  the  wing. 
Lisaveta  was  the  very  girl  to  be  spellbound.  She 


136  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

had  spent  her  season  in  Rome  and  Florence;  she 
knew  the  Rhine  with  its  castles  and  its  vine-clad 
hills;  like  all  high  Russians,  her  mother  had  been 
everywhere,  and  O'Connor  himself  was  one  of  the 
Irish  gentlemen  who  have  a  touch  of  the  Parisian, 
something  to  the  manner  born  which  puts  them 
at  ease  in  all  societies.  Gaiety  is  infectious; 
these  two  women  were  soon  playing  their  lively 
duo,  as  the  sky  lights  up  when  night  meets  the 
morning. 

They  talked  of  everything  but  Lady  Liscarroll's 
tragedy.  That  lay  buried  beneath  twenty  Atlantics ; 
the  waves  rippled  over  it,  the  breezes  sang.  One  in- 
sinuation crept  round  Miss  O'Connor's  heart,  a  snake 
drawn  thither  by  such  enchanting  music — what  a 
pity  that  this  bright  creature  should  be  cut  off  from 
her  kind,  so  abounding  in  liveliness  and  joy!  Did 
she  talk  to  Philip  as  she  was  talking  now  ?  Then  a 
glance  at  the  spinning-wheel  and  silent  Joan  would 
bring  back  the  admonitory  legend  of  the  witch  in  the 
tower.  But  so  novel  an  admixture  of  sensations 
tended  to  throw  a  young  soul  off  its  balance ;  she  had 
heard,  but  never  seen  with  her  eyes,  how  fascinating 
a  woman  might  be  whose  goodness  was  problemati- 
cal. The  child  that  looked  forth  in  Lisaveta's  pale 
and  serious  countenance  took  fright,  but  would  not 
run  away.  An  hour  vanished  to  nothing;  still  they 
kept  up  the  game  of  hide-and-seek,  both  amused, 


THE   FORBIDDEN   DOOR  137 

feeling  it  to  be  an  adventure  with  unknown  issues. 
The  Mary  Stuart  of  Renmore  had  never  been  so 
brilliant  in  her  palmiest  days.  She  was  playing  for 
her  life. 

"Sorry,  but  I  must  go  now,"  said  her  visitor,  ris- 
ing, "and — may  I  ask  it? — do  come  and  see  me  at 
Silverwood.  Come  and  stay?" 

The  captive  sighed  pensively.  "Shall  we  be  al- 
lowed to  fly  that  far,  Joan?  What  do  you  think? 
You  look  downcast." 

"I  would  wait  a  while,"  answered  Joan,  "till  the 
weather  was  settled." 

Her  pleasure  in  the  dialogue  which  she  did  not 
share  was  anything  but  intense.  She  had  her  own 
thoughts  about  Lady  Liscarroll,  and  interpreted  bet- 
ter than  their  visitor  what  all  these  fireworks  meant. 
"I  see  danger,  I  see  destruction,"  she  would  have 
exclaimed,  had  she  spoken  out.  The  red  mist  was 
rolling  up  again. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  answered  the  lady,  pat- 
ting her  cheek.  "In  the  fair  golden  weather  we  will 
come,  my  dear  young  friend.  But  don't  desert  us. 
I  am  always  at  home.  Your  father  and  I  rode  many 
a  time  after  the  same  pack  of  hounds — the  dear  old 
Black-and-Tans ;  we  have  danced  to  the  same  tune  in 
many  a  ballroom.  Stay — take  this  miniature;  it  is 
said  to  be  like  me.  I  think  it  has  something  of 
Philip  in  the  expression.  Do  you?" 


138  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"It  has  the  eyes — not  the  mouth,"  said  Lisaveta, 
chilled  at  the  name,  which  reminded  her  that  she  was 
risking  his  anger  and  Edmund's.  She  put  the  keep- 
sake away,  shook  hands,  all  her  timidity  now  reveng- 
ing itself  on  her  rashness,  and  fled  downstairs  as 
hastily  as  she  had  sprung  up  them. 

In  the  hall,  not  Philip,  but  his  cousin  was  waiting. 
The  girl  had  fancied  that  she  could  brave  the  bar- 
onet ;  one  sight  of  Edmund  swept  the  other  from  her 
recollection,  and  oh,  this  meeting  was  far  worse !  It 
shook  her  as  the  sudden  breeze  sets  the  aspen  quiver- 
ing. He  would  rebuke  her  as  if  she  had  broken  a 
pledge,  and  she  felt  defenseless.  Some  new  heaven, 
undreamt  of  till  then,  flashed  with  all  its  vistas  upon 
her,  and  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

Edmund  drew  down  his  heavy  brows.  Tender- 
ness, fear,  and  rage  struggled  within  him.  "Why 
could  n't  you  believe  me  ?"  he  cried  abruptly.  "Why 
will  you  make  things  hard  for  us?" 

"But  she  was  so  lonely,"  pleaded  Lisaveta,  "and — 
I  never  saw  her  equal — the  most  charming  of  wo- 
men! I  confess  it  was  wrong.  The  door  stood 
open;  blame  no  one  but  me.  Won't  you  forgive 
my  curiosity  ?" 

"Charming,  charming!"  he  echoed.  "Woe  be- 
tide such  charms !  Yes,  I  could  forgive  your  curi- 
osity ;  but  have  I — have  I  thought  and  dreamt  about 


THE   FORBIDDEN    DOOR  139 

you  month  after  month  to  read  you  no  better?  It 
is  not  curiosity — it  is  the  dreadful  passion  for  self- 
sacrifice  that  stirs  in  you  and  will  ruin  you." 

A  sort  of  agony  choked  him;  the  table  against 
which  he  was  leaning  shook. 

"You  scourge  me  with  compliments,"  said  Lis- 
aveta,  endeavoring  to  smile. 

"Compliments?  It  is  the  truth — your  truth. 
The  Russian  in  you  is  what  I  dread.  Remember 
how  much  you  have  told  me  of  your  mother,  your 
very  peasants — the  mad  love  of  suffering  which  has 
planted  itself  deep  in  the  Russian  heart.  Lady  Lis- 
carroll  has  sinned;  you  want  to  take  her  sin  upon 
you,  to  be  a  scapegoat,  a  sin-offering.  I  know  you, 
Miss  O'Connor." 

The  insight  of  this  young  man  seemed  to  her  pro- 
digious; it  revealed  Lisaveta  to  herself  as  though  a 
lamp  had  been  lit  in  her  brain  and  shed  its  rays  over 
the  innermost  deeps  of  the  spirit.  "You  scold  me 
like  a  saint,"  she  said  in  defense.  "That  is  what 
you  would  do  yourself.  /  was  only  asking  your 
aunt  to  Silverwood." 

"And  what  is  she  to  you?"  he  cried,  striking  the 
table  hard ;  life  is  before  you — to  enjoy,  not  to  throw 
away  on  the  first  beggar  you  meet.  Let  her  suffer. 
She  deserves  it." 

Lisaveta  smiled  at  his  passion.     "I  never  could 


i4o  THE   WIZARD'S    KNOT 

see  a  dog  suffer,  let  alone  a  woman,  my  own  flesh 
and  blood.  Don't  ask  it  now." 

"I  tell  you  she  is  a  creature  all  flame  and  poison," 
he  said  despairingly.  "O'Dwyer,  who  has  seen  her 
from  first  to  last — do  you  know  what  he  calls  her  ?" 

"He  weighs  all  of  us  in  loaded  scales,"  said  Miss 
O'Connor. 

"He  calls  her  the  woman  whose  heart  was  a  ser- 
pent's head." 

The  girl  laughed  merrily.  "Original,  as  always. 
But  why  the  head  in  the  heart  ?" 

"Because  she  has  poisoned  every  good  feeling  a 
woman  ought  to  cherish.  Look,  my  dear  child,  you 
are  taken  with  her  acting,  which  I  admit  is  wonder- 
ful. But  how  did  she  behave  to  her  son?  He  was 
fourteen  when  she  disappeared.  How  to  Sir  Wal- 
ter? In  two  years  he  lay  in  his  grave,  by  that  blow 
from  his  wife's  hand.  I  say  nothing  of  myself — " 

"But  do,  please.  Tell  me  your  story."  They 
were  seated  now  near  the  hearth,  and  had  forgotten 
to  keep  their  distance — really  forgotten. 

"In  three  words,  then.  My  mother  died  when  I 
was  born.  Captain  Richard  Liscarroll,  my  father, 
was  sent  to  India,  caught  jungle- fever,  and,  I  hope, 
joined  my  mother  in  heaven.  Sir  Walter  adopted 
me." 

"And  Lady  Liscarroll—?" 


THE   FORBIDDEN   DOOR  141 

"Hated  me,"  concluded  Edmund.  "Hates  me 
now.  Thinks  it  is  I  that  stiffen  Phil's  back.  Little 
she  knows  him !" 

"I  can't  fancy  any  one  hating  you,"  said  she,  with 
a  roguish,  pensive  smile,  "but  you  are  very  teasing 
sometimes,  and  as  stern  a  schoolmaster  as  old  Cathal. 
I  dare  say  you  teased  your  aunt." 

"My  uncle  could  dispose  of  his  property  as  he 
liked ;  he  put  me  in  his  will  after  Philip  and  treated 
me  as  his  younger  son.  That  was  all  my  teasing." 

"Well,  bygones  are  bygones,"  said  Lisaveta;  "I 
can't  think  of  that  proud  creature  up  there — alive 
and  yet  dead — but  my  heart  bleeds.  Yes,  I  want  to 
save  her." 

Edmund  grew  desperate.  "There  is  only  the  one 
way  to  save  her  and  not  destroy  yourself."  he  ex- 
claimed, leaping  to  his  feet. 

"Which  is  that?"  she  asked,  rising,  not  in  the 
least  aware  of  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

"Marry  Sir  Philip,"  he  cried,  turning  deadly 
white. 

"You  advise  me  to  marry  your  cousin?"  she  said 
in  a  strangled  tone,  as  she  moved  toward  the  door. 
"You,  Edmund?" 

He  remarked  the  Christian  name,  but  took  no  ad- 
vantage of  it.  To  his  thought,  the  danger  was 
always  that  creature  of  flame  and  poison  whom  Lis- 


H2  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

aveta  would  not  shun — that  rattlesnake.  "I  advise 
nothing,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "except  that  you  will 
fight  against  your  Russian  madness.  Let  the  woman 
alone,  or  marry  Sir  Philip."  He  meant  it  to  be  im- 
possible. 

"I  will  think  of  it,"  she  said  coldly,  and  drove 
off. 


BUT  Philip  had  other  shafts  in  his  heart,  nor  was 
he  meditating  of  love.  His  fearful  sickness, 
wasting  him  to  a  shadow,  seemed  to  fill  with  dreams 
and  to  trouble  a  brain  that  its  owner  would  have 
called  dull,  for  with  his  brilliant  cousin  at  his  side, 
how  could  he  imagine  himself  not  so?  "I  am  a 
leath  omadan — half  a  fool,"  he  would  laugh  bitterly, 
wounding  his  pride  with  the  lively  Irish  phrase. 

He  was  now  such  as  the  children  of  Lir  had  been 
when  night  and  black  frost  overtook  them  on  the 
pinnacle  of  the  Rock  of  Seals,  and,  "each  was  chilled 
in  his  place  as  they  lay  upon  the  rock,  so  that  their 
feet,  their  feathers,  and  their  wings  clave  to  it,  and 
when  they  strove  to  get  loose  they  left  there  the  skin 
of  their  feet,  and  the  feathers  of  their  breasts,  and 
the  tips  of  their  wings." 

Long,  long  he  had  drifted  solitary  upon  the  cur- 
rent of  this  great  grief.  With  the  dumb  instinct  of 
his  dogs  or  horses,  the  boy  had  set  his  love  on  father 
and  mother — not  quick  to  seize  the  meaning  of  those 


i44  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

fiery  streaks  that  once  in  a  while  darted  through  the 
sky  of  home — perplexed,  but  not  foreboding.  On  a 
sudden  the  mother  was  gone ;  the  dark  unknown  had 
swallowed  up  that  fair  apparition,  and  Philip,  run- 
ning to  the  edge  of  the  abyss,  cried  down  it  in  vain, 
"Mother,  mother !" 

His  heart  broke  within  him ;  but  he  could  not  tell 
any  one,  no,  not  his  dear  father,  who  rambled  aim- 
lessly, day  and  night,  by  the  sea,  or  disappeared  on 
strange  expeditions,  to  come  back  with  a  sallow  face 
and  eyes  out  of  which  the  sparkle  had  vanished. 

Their  souls  met  in  a  speechless  kiss;  but  their 
lips  were  silent.  Shame  held  their  heads  bowed  to 
earth;  love  tore  open  the  wound  in  the  breast  and 
poisoned  it.  From  these  dark  hours  Philip  had 
never  issued  free;  his  father  died  of  them.  And 
Lady  Liscarroll  was  dancing  her  dance  on  a  carpet  of 
flowers,  sure,  with  the  incredible  lightness  that  in- 
toxication brings,  of  her  sanguine  creed :  "The  boy 
won't  miss  me,  and  Sir  Walter  is  tender-hearted 
when  he  chooses.  Let  him  look  after  his  son." 

There  is  an  old  story  of  the  youth  whose  features 
were  fair  as  a  girl's,  but  who  from  neck  to  ankles 
was  covered  with  leprosy,  which  he  hid  under  silken 
raiment  and  fine  linen.  Yet,  one  day,  the  point  of  a 
sword  rent  his  sleeve,  and  he  appeared  what  he  had 
always  been — a  leper.  We  shall  not  understand 


CHILDREN   OF   LIR  145 

Philip  Liscarroll  unless  we  take  this  picture  in;  for 
he  lived  it — from  the  age  of  fourteen  he  bore  the 
taint,  visible  to  himself,  though  others  did  not  re- 
mark it,  or  let  him  pass  without  hearing  what  they 
said.  Always  shy,  embarrassed  of  his  person,  as 
the  French  saying  goes,  he  never  went  into  society 
but  he  thought  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  great  shock 
of  red  hair,  his  freckled  face,  and  his  long  legs.  No 
vanity  looked  out  from  his  shaving-glass;  when 
Cathal's  ruddy  epithet  of  "the  Firbolg"  got  round  to 
him,  Philip  snorted  between  disdain  and  hurt  as  at 
a  sudden  stab.  "No  doubt  I  'm  an  ugly  devil,"  was 
his  inward  speech.  He  did  not  know  that  a  painter 
would  have  chosen  this  ugly  devil  to  light  up  his 
backgrounds,  or  how  some  of  the  prettiest  of  those 
Celtic  maidens  smiled  as  he  came  striding  by  in  the 
dream  which  flung  about  his  steps  a  kind  of  sadness 
and  mystery.  The  poison  of  his  mother's  brewing 
had  blinded  this  young  giant's  eyes.  With  what 
face  could  he  ask  a  girl  to  marry  him,  branded  like 
the  son  of  a  man  that  had  been  hanged?  Silence 
gathering  over  Lady  Liscarroll's  name,  burying  her 
alive,  shut  him  in  one  tomb  with  her.  So  he  must 
live,  so  die;  Edmund  should  have  the  estate;  the 
elder  branch  of  Renmore  lay  withered. 

To  the  age  of  four-and-twenty  these  sad  thoughts 
had  been  his  escort.     At  last,  the  appearance  he 


146  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

once  adored  rose  up  from  the  unknown — as  beautiful 
as  ever,  but  ghastly  with  hues  of  sin  and  murder,  a 
shining  death-light. 

Philip  did  not  use  an  imagined  style;  the  deep 
thing  within,  which  was  himself,  carried  on  its 
broodings  with  slight,  broken  metaphors  and  spoke  in 
shorthand.  We  translate  him,  but  not  untruly. 
One  sulphurous  flash,  a  sword  and  a  mirror,  had 
brought  back  his  mother's  countenance,  smiting  him 
to  the  sick-bed  where  he  moaned  or  tossed  an  inter- 
minable time,  until  that  tawny  mist  came  down,  and 
with  it,  as  he  fancied,  the  end.  But  some  power 
scattered  it;  lights  broke  on  him  from  this  side  arid 
that;  again  he  looked  up,  and  what  he  saw  was  a 
girl's  face  turned  toward  his,  tender  gray  eyes  over 
lips  parted  in  expectation  and  wonder.  A  second 
vision  had  burnt  itself  into  the  brain,  fresh  and  sweet 
as  an  April  morning. 

With  Joan  came  the  fairy  music  too,  low  and  al- 
most inarticulate,  rippling,  tinkling,  as  streams  and 
winds  flow  for  their  own  pleasure,  but  full  of  en- 
chantments. It  was  mixed  with  the  hum  of  the 
spinning-wheel,  and  seemed  to  laugh  over  it  divinely 
— to  laugh  as  the  finest  sorrow  laughs,  as  the  rain 
holds  the  sun  in  its  falling  drops,  and  the  land 
brightens  where  they  strike.  April — this  was  April 
— Edmund  would  have  made  poetry  of  it  all,  and 


CHILDREN   OF   LIR  147 

Joan  should  be  the  April  maiden  in  his  rhymes ;  but 
Philip,  whose  verses  must  be  feelings  and  acts 
prompted  by  them,  went  blindly  into  the  flowering, 
rain-dashed,  song-lit  spring,  not  knowing  whither, 
except  that  the  music  drew  and  he  followed.  Why, 
it  was  love  already,  you  will  say.  Hush,  my  too- 
wise  reader,  let  the  spell  work,  be  not  impatient  for 
the  untwisting  of  these  secret  harmonies.  Philip 
was  a  novice  in  the  art,  and  Joan  as  little  aware  of 
her  influence  as  a  wave  that  dances  on  the  sea  of  its 
foam-born  beauty.  They  dreamt  they  knew  not 
what.  How  should  they  know? 

Had  Cathal's  eyes  looked  as  sharply  into  his  own 
matters  as  they  did  into  the  adventures  of  "the  great 
Trojans  of  Troy,"  he  might  have  taken  fright  and 
recalled  Joan  to  his  cabin,  though  Davy  Roche  had 
now  begun  to  threaten  him  with  legal  processes, 
actions  for  ejectment  and  recovery,  and  the  other 
peines  fortes  et  dures  known  to  tenants  in  Ireland. 
"There  's  many  a  twist  in  the  Sassenach  law,"  was  a 
favorite  among  proverbs  with  O'Dwyer.  The  rope 
was  getting  ready  to  put  round  his  horns  and  bring 
him  down.  Young  ears  that  hear  the  grass  growing 
had  not  been  asleep  when  he  let  loose  at  the  Cork 
butterman,  in  open  school,  that  terrific  anathema. 
The  boys,  at  first  thunderstruck,  caught  up,  with 
infinite  relish,  so  handy  a  weapon,  and  in  more  than 


148  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

one  quarrel  "the  curse  of  Davy  Roche"  supplemented 
for  a  month  or  six  weeks  the  curse  of  Cromwell, 
hitherto  revered  as  beyond  parallel  efficacious. 
"May  the  divil  sweep  out  hell  with  you,  and  thin 
burn  the  broom"  was  so  often  echoed  in  Renmore 
village  on  market-days  that  Father  Falvey  had  at 
last  to  prohibit  from  the  altar  this  too  picturesque 
imprecation,  adding  his  belief  that  curses  like  chick- 
ens came  home  to  roost.  Henceforth,  the  village 
saw  the  curse  of  Davy  Roche  sitting  up  inside  the 
thatch  of  the  schoolmaster's  cottage. 

O'Dwyer  smiled  proudly,  but  some  dread  far 
within  gave  him  a  twinge.  "What  call  had  Father 
Falvey  to  say  that,  when  I  was  doing  no  harm  to  his 
reverence?"  he  muttered  to  Garret  O'Riordan;  "and 
being  the  village  schoolmaster  besides." 

"Himself  could  tell  you  best,"  answered  Garret, 
looking  away  as  in  thought,  "but  there  's  a  thing  we 
all  know — let  the  priest  o'  God  say  good  or  bad, 
't  will  surely  be  so.  Did  Patsy  Doyle's  mother  live 
long  after  giving  back  words  to  Father  Hennessy, 
and  he  threatening  to  read  his  book  over  her  ?  You 
saw  how  she  wasted  and  dwined  after  that ;  even  his 
blessing  could  n't  rise  her  from  the  flat  of  her  back. 
I  hope  it  won't  be  the  same  with  you,  O'Dwyer; 
but  indeed  't  is  the  divil's  own  tongue  is  in  your 
mouth  by  times." 


CHILDREN   OF   LIR  149 

"I  don't  deny  the  priest  has  power,"  answered 
Cathal,  "the  more  by  token  that  whin  St.  Patrick 
bate  down  the  Druids,  he  took  it  from  them  and  gave 
it  over  to  the  clergy.  However,  they  should  n't  be 
putting  it  to  the  back  of  a  man  like  Davy  Roche. 
I  'd  sooner  have  Beelzebub  himself  for  a  landlord — 
the  cross  of  Christ  between  us  and  all  harm.  But 
don't  say  I  said  it,  Garret." 

No,  her  father  could  only  wish  that  Joan  should 
stay  up  at  the  house  and  earn  the  white  shillings.  He 
was  there  in  his  erratic  fashion,  off  and  on,  but  never 
allowed  to  enter  the  tower,  and,  like  the  rest  of  the 
country-folk,  had  begun  to  think  of  Lady  Liscarroll 
as  an  invisible  witch,  or  Banshee,  not  safe  to  meddle 
with.  "Well,  well,"  he  said  to  his  daughter  in  their 
moments  of  talk,  "shinn  fein,  shinn  fein — ourselves 
before  all.  You  tell  me  this  great  woman  is  your 
friend.  Does  her  son  come  near  her  now?" 

"I  'm  not  sure  't  is  right  to  be  talking  of  them," 
answered  Joan ;  "the  master  is  a  strange  man,  how- 
ever. Sometimes  I  'd  fancy  't  was  the  bits  of  songs 
I  learned  from  you  that  brings  him  listening  on  the 
stairs,  or  creeping  like  a  ghost  into  the  High  Room 
itself.  If  I  was  n't  spinning  always — 't  is  that 
makes  me  sing — I  'd  feel  ashamed.  But  what  harm 
would  he  do — the  poor  boy  ?  For  he  is  but  a  boy  to 
Mr.  Edmund." 


150  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"True  for  you,  Joan;  and  yet  Mr.  Edmund  is 
the  junior  of  them.  But  he  sits  there  and  does  n't 
open  his  mouth  ?  What  does  Lady  Eleanor  say  to 
that?" 

"She  says  as  little  till  he  spakes  to  her;  then  she 
is  the  honey-mouth  and  the  laughing  eye.  Any  one 
but  Sir  Philip  would  think  the  day  short  to  be  with 
Lady  Liscarroll.  Though,  indeed,  I  do  be  tired  and 
lonesome,  father,  in  those  big  ould  rooms.  Is  it 
true,"  lowering  her  voice,  "that  her  husband  does  be 
showing  himself  in  the  castle?"  She  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross  as  the  words  left  her  lips. 

"Why  do  you  question  me?"  asked  O'Dwyer,  his 
curiosity  aroused. 

"Maybe  't  is  foolishness,"  answered  Joan;  "still, 
when  I  'm  awake  at  nights,  or  between  sleeping  and 
waking,  I  hear  whispers  and  cries,  and  lamentations, 
and  something  that  stirs  in  the  thick  of  the  walls, 
God  forgive  me." 

"You  hear  the  great  sound  of  the  sea,  and  the  ribs 
of  ivy  dashed  by  winds  or  tempests  against  the  stones 
they  cling  to ;  and  the  darkness  itself  has  voices  you 
could  n't  know  in  the  daytime.  The  night  outside  is 
a  ghost;  don't  be  frightened  till  it  walks  into  the 
room  to  you,  child  of  my  heart." 

"I  'd  sooner  be  at  home,"  she  said,  with  a  shiver, 
"was  it  not  for  the  rent  tormenting  us.  Here  's  a 


CHILDREN   OF   LIR  151 

few  shillings  now,  father;  will  you  keep  them  safe 
till  I  come?" 

"I  will,  I  will,"  he  said  vaguely,  making  on  the 
spot  a  resolution  which  he  knew  would  snap  like 
threads  in  the  fire.  "I  '11  not  be  wasteful  or  extrav- 
agant. There  's  my  hand  and  word  on  it." 

"We  're  trusting  to  them  for  that  man,"  she  in- 
sisted, with  a  trembling  affection.  "What  will  you 
do  without  them,  father?" 

"My  word  is  as  good  as  my  bond,"  he  answered, 
making  a  great  show  of  courage.  It  was — and  no 
better. 

Happen  what  might,  therefore,  Cathal  looked 
away  while  the  wheels  drove.  In  his  glorified  mo- 
ments, the  punch-bowl  creating  smoky  golden  spec- 
ters that  jigged  unsteadily  in  the  steaming  haze,  he 
might  have  thought  of  Joan  as  the  swan-maiden, 
Fionnghuala — the  white-shouldered — who  sang  to 
her  brothers  when  they  crept  round  her,  half-dead 
with  the  sea-frosts.  His  own  heart  swelled  and 
bounded  as  her  voice  trilled  its  low  notes — what 
wonder  if  others  felt  their  grief  lessened  at  the  plain- 
tive music  of  that  swan,  or  slept  sound  and  easy  after 
it?  By  their  native  law,  no  hurt  could  be  done  to 
birds  that  sang  such  sweet  melodies;  and  so  Cathal 
went  his  way  merrily  enough  and  found  his  cronies 
in  the  old  chimney  corner,  where,  as  long  as  he  could 


152  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

pay,  there  was  "a  never-failing  supply  of  roast  pig 
and  good  liquor."  So  he  soon  had  made  an  end — 
in  order  to  spite  Davy  Roche — of  his  daughter's 
white  shillings. 

Philip  did  say  in  his  heart  a  thousand  times  that  to 
live  was  to  be  miserable.  The  wings  of  the  spirit 
were  frost-bound;  all  day  long  storms  beat  and 
whistled  about  his  solitude,  and  the  swan-maiden's 
lay  would  have  served  him  well ;  how  much  he  had 
to  suffer — "the  cold  of  that  night,  the  depth  of  that 
snow,  the  hardness  of  that  wind !"  His  heavy  head 
and  drenched  feathers  betokened  the  drooping  of  a 
courage  wild  to  rashness  when  he  could  grapple  with 
an  enemy,  but  here  in  conflict  with  the  impalpable — 
for  one  of  them  must  die,  as  he  said  to  Will  Hapgood 
— the  way  out  was  suicide  or  murder.  These  ever- 
whirling  arguments  tore  him  on  their  wheel.  Then 
he  would  creep,  as  Joan  called  it — the  word  was  apt 
— along  the  tower  staircase  and  listen  outside,  stand- 
ing at  a  loophole  from  which  the  sea  was  visible, 
while  this  mermaid  sang.  It  opened  his  heart  a 
little. 

No  more  did  Philip  dream  of  what  we  call  love,  in 
these  early  hours,  than  does  a  child  that  harkens  to 
the  nightingale.  His  wings  had  yet  to  be  loosened 
from  the  rock,  else  for  him  there  would  be  no  flying 
over  the  bright  waves,  in  spring,  with  his  mate. 


CHILDREN    OF    LIR  153 

Like  a  child  he  wove  insensibly  into  the  snatches  of 
old  Irish  song  all  that  he  saw,  hoped,  feared,  longed 
after.  The  strange  mystery  of  ocean  round  his 
castle  walls  made  the  deeps  and  the  horizons  of  that 
music ;  the  billows  rolled  over  it ;  the  foam  flew  with 
it;  the  lights  innumerable  and  all  their  splendors 
colored  it ;  the  secret  or  sudden  voices  of  the  vision- 
ary birds  came  as  a  chorus  to  swell  and  heighten  it ; 
an  immense  yearning  for  peace,  for  comfort,  took 
hold  of  the  simple  chant,  which  was  pure  as  a 
throstle's  note,  and  interpreted  its  message  on  a  scale 
known  to  the  heart  that  has  loved  but  now  finds  it- 
self alone.  I  do  not  say  that  another,  different  from 
Philip,  less  feeling  and  less  tortured,  would  have 
taken  this  music  for  a  cup  into  which  he  might  pour 
an  infinite  sweetness.  All  I  say  is  that  he  did  so,  in 
his  wild  tower  of  the  winds,  fixing  his  tired  eyes 
upon  the  pale  blue  waters,  which,  as  the  breeze  smote 
them,  broke  into  gleams  of  sunshine.  The  salt  of 
life  was  in  them  and  in  the  swan-maiden's  thrilling 
tones.  But  she,  too,  could  understand,  as  he  came 
softly  up  day  after  day,  what  it  was  that  brought  him. 
"  'T  is  a  long  time  to  be  in  pain,"  she  remarked  to  his 
mother,  seeing  how  downcast  he  went  to  and  fro. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  have  gone  through  a  great  deal," 
answered  the  lady,  with  a  quick  glance  toward  her 
son;  "but  I  can  throw  it  off — otherwise,  I  should 


154  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

have  been  in  my  grave  years  ago.  Philip  took  all 
his  baby-complaints  hard.  He  has  not  corrected 
that  fault." 

A  flush,  light  as  the  sparkle  of  dew,  came  and  went 
over  Joan's  features.  This  mother  of  Philip's  had 
turned  for  the  instant  to  a  venomous  hag.  She  said 
nothing,  however.  Though  untrained  in  the  ways 
of  the  great  world,  her  mind  had  long  been  made  up 
that  to  take  the  young  man's  side  would  be  severe 
upon  Lady  Liscarroll  and  no  help  to  him.  "Bad 
was  the  beginning,"she  thought,  "and  worse  is  to 
come.  I  won't  draw  it  down  with  foolish  talk." 

In  this  forlorn  existence  what  talk  could  there  be  ? 
Philip,  leaving  the  concerns  of  his  place  and  property 
to  his  agent — a  hard  man  of  business,  Mr.  Colegrave 
from  the  County  Wicklow — turning  over  to  Ed- 
mund the  few  visitors  that  were  bold  enough  to  ap- 
pear at  Castle  Dangerous,  either  passed  the  hours  in 
his  room  or  went  up  to  these  silent  sessions,  bitter 
and  sad,  as  if  he  dreaded  to  leave  his  mother  out  of 
sight.  He  pitied,  hated,  even  loved  her — all  in  the 
same  despairing  way;  could  he  have  known  her 
thoughts,  it  seemed  to  him  that  their  lives  must 
change  for  the  better ;  but  no,  behind  her  smooth  and 
delicate  speeches  some  one  lay  hid  whom  he  should 
never  see.  The  woman's  art  baffled  him,  that  instan- 
taneous acting  which  is  second  nature,  too  subtle  and 


CHILDREN   OF   LIR  155 

too  finished  for  a  rude,  direct  temper  like  his  own. 
When  he  considered  how  she  had  none  to  speak  with 
but  this  untaught  child,  how  she  must  count  the 
hours  as  they  fell  wearily  into  the  sand-glass — no 
future,  no  hope — he  was  tempted  to  fling  the  doors 
wide  and  risk  the  consequences.  Then  he  would  go 
up,  death  in  his  looks,  and  sit  there  in  the  High 
Room,  or  on  the  roof  of  the  tower,  face  to  face  with 
this  guilty,  this  pitiable  mother;  and  their  hands 
would  be  locked,  and  no  word  said,  but  only  the 
voices  of  the  air  would  come  whispering  round  them, 
until  the  lady  called  for  those  ballads  and  the  girl's 
accents  answered. 

Thus  all  three  were  falling  into  a  profound  dis- 
quietude, to  which  perhaps  Lady  Liscarroll,  as  a 
woman  of  the  world,  was  more  refractory  than  these 
children  of  nature.  Shadows  over  them,  abysses 
beneath  them ;  the  gate  of  every  day,  "with  dreadful 
faces  thronged  and  fiery  arms" ;  why  should  they 
pass  down  to  it,  pass  through  it?  Oh,  could  that 
enemy  of  a  universe  be  annihilated  for  them — then 
Philip  would  not  grudge  to  live  here,  in  prison  or  on 
the  tower,  till  death  struck  them  all.  He  forgot 
how  men  and  women  looked,  what  they  did  or  said, 
away  from  his  sentry-guard ;  it  was  nothing  to  him 
now.  More  and  more  he  plunged  into  the  still  life 
around,  which  neither  accused  nor  could  be  drawn 


156  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

to  evil,  but  spread  before  him,  above  and  below — 
an  immeasurable  air  sown  with  stars,  a  mighty  water 
full  of  strange,  not  human,  things — "the  lovely  wet 
plain,"  as  our  Irish  poet  says — beautiful  in  its  un- 
concern for  what  vexed  these  mortals — sucking  in 
the  light  and  spouting  it  again  in  sheets  of  sunny 
foam.  Thus  he  felt,  and  by  some  magic  the  girl  at 
his  side  comprehended.  Her  eyes,  limpid  and 
grave,  told  him  as  much.  Yet,  if  they  reflected, 
they  did  not  reveal,  the  glances  that  in  this  mute 
ecstasy  he  flung  her  way.  Had  his  wings  begun  to 
sprout  ? 

But  now  Lisaveta,  the  Russian  saint,  as  people 
called  her,  had  come  and  torn  aside  the  pale  roses 
into  which  the  young  man's  blood  was  secretly  dis- 
tilling, drop  by  drop;  his  castle  in  the  air  shook  to 
its  base,  the  crystal  of  his  dream  shivered  ominously. 
Will  Hapgood's  tall  form  rose  on  the  drawbridge, 
challenging  admission.  Who  had  done  this  thing? 
As  soon  as  Will  had  taken  himself  off,  Philip  flung 
down  his  fowling-piece  so  violently  on  the  floor  that 
he  broke  one  of  the  tiles  across — a  memento  of  his 
rage  and  perplexity  which  he  was  to  tramp  over 
often.  With  masterful  strides  he  sprang  upstairs, 
undid  the  tower  door,  and  ran,  like  the  madman  he 
felt,  in  search  of  Joan,  whom  he  found  by  the  loop- 
hole window,  telling  her  beads.  The  girl,  at  his 


CHILDREN    OF   LIR  157 

appearance  with  flushed  cheeks  and  eyes  ablaze, 
knew  that  a  storm  was  bearing  straight  upon  the 
house.  She  trembled — her  nerves  were  finely 
strung — but  plucked  up  a  brave  heart  against  its 
advance.  When  their  eyes  met  in  a  long  and  dubi- 
ous encounter— not  a  syllable  breaking  the  charm — 
they  were  both  suddenly  aware  that  they  had  never 
looked  at  each  other  in  so  lone  a  world,  with  such 
direct  glances,  till  that  moment.  Joan's  eyes  fell 
first ;  and  eager  to  check  some  strong  emotion  which 
was  wholly  new  to  her,  she  said,  coloring  like  the 
tender  sky  of  the  dawn,  "Is  it  my  lady  you  would  be 
wanting?  I  '11  go  tell  her." 

Philip  stretched  out  his  hand  to  keep  her  motion- 
less. "Not  yet,  not  yet,"  was  all  he  could  get  out ;  he 
did  not  dare  to  overstep  the  short  space  between 
them.  "What  have  I  done?"  muttered  an  un- 
known, a  pleading,  passionate  voice  in  Joan's  ears, 
"that  you  should  bring  this  upon  me?" 

"This,  Sir  Philip,"  she  answered;  "this  what? 
Ah,  Miss  O'Connor !" 

"Yes,  and  this,"  he  said  hoarsely,  signing  that  she 
should  come  to  a  window  opposite  him.  "Look 
here." 

She  saw  Will  Hapgood  riding  along  the  avenue, 
his  errand  accomplished. 

"To-day,  Hapgood.     To-morrow,  the  county  will 


158  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

be  here.  Disgrace  on  disgrace,  and  I  shall  die,  as 
my  father  did,  like  a  badger  in  a  hole.  Your 
doing,  Joan !" 

Again  the  questioning  eyes  met  in  a  strange  com- 
passion, wrath,  tenderness — a  thousand  feelings 
fused  into  one,  and  that  supreme.  The  next  instant 
they  had  taken  each  other's  hands,  to  drop  them  as 
suddenly,  in  an  atmosphere  which  was  all  flame. 

"Never  mind;  you  could  n't  help  it,"  said  Philip, 
when  he  saw  her  eyes  wet.  "But,  anyhow,  you  are 
sorry  for  me.  Any  person  would  be,"  he  ended 
almost  in  a  boyish  tone,  complaining  and  asking 
comfort.  Joan's  tears  fell  on  her  beads  as  she  held 
them  before  her. 

"Oh,  Sir  Philip,  I  had  a  mother  as  well  as  you," 
she  said,  her  bosom  heaving.  "We  don't  know 
where  she  is ;  and  I  'd  give  the  world  to  hear  tell  of 
her.  Is  it  a  girl  like  me  that  would  n't  feel  for 
you?" 

"I  remember,"  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh ;  "forgive 
me;  trouble  makes  a  man  selfish.  Do  you  always 
feel  the  pain — the — the  shame  of  it — as  I  do?" 

"God  knows,  't  is  never  far  from  me,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "rising  up  and  lying  down,  I  used  to  be  sor- 
rowful, with  the  red  spot  on  my  forehead,  that  I 
thought  Renmore  was  looking  at.  Whin  I  'd  hear 
the  people  talking,  I  could  go  under  the  ground  or 


CHILDREN   OF  LIR  159 

into  the  lonesomest  water  that  ever  the  .sea  covered. 
'T  was  that  very  thing  brought  me  hither.  Surely, 
my  heart  was  broke  at  the  sight  of  Lady  Eleanor; 
but  I  held  to  it,  and  I  'm  here  this  day." 

"Could  you  forgive  your  mother,  Joan,  if  she  came 
back?"  he  asked. 

"I  could,"  she  answered  simply.  "But  I  would  n't 
say  my  father  could.  The  men  are  not  like  us." 
Her  meditative  look  was  beautiful  as  she  said 
this. 

"Your  father  is  living,  mine  is  dead.  It  makes  a 
difference,"  said  Philip.  "Besides,  I  can't  see  into 
her  heart.  Can  you  ?" 

Joan  paused  before  she  would  touch  so  inflam- 
mable a  tinder. 

"She  is  proud,  her  breast  is  full  up  of  grief,  and 
her  head  is  light  with  trouble.  I  don't  believe  she 
knows  half  the  time  what  she  is  doing." 

"Nor  what  she  has  done,"  he  said  despairingly. 
"It  is  nothing  in  her  eyes." 

"  'T  is  the  drunkenness  of  sin,"  answered  Joan, 
gravely,  "and  that  's  a  hard,  but  a  true  word. 
There  's  often  a  black  head  on  a  white  body,  but  the 
head  won't  see  itself." 

"And  the  fool  of  a  world  runs  to  see  it,"  said 
Philip.  "Why  did  you  let  Miss  O'Connor  in  ?  Ah, 
why?" 


i6o  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"She  ran  past  me,"  said  the  girl,  sobbing;  "would 
a  lady  be  stopped  by  a  poor  thing  like  myself?  But, 
indeed,  Sir  Philip,"  she  continued,  "Lady  Liscarroll 
is  too  fine  a  bird  to  be  kept  in  the  cage.  I  'd  advise 
— but  who  would  be  said  by  me?"  She  broke  off 
in  confusion. 

"Let  me  hear  your  advice,"  he  answered  eagerly ; 
"it  will  be  honest — I  can  see  to  the  bottom  of  your 
heart,  Joan.  Clear  as  a  well,  can't  I  ?" 

"You  'd  be  the  wise  man,"  she  said,  laughing 
under  her  breath.  "My  advice,  thin,  is  to  let  your 
mother  go  to  Miss  O'Connor's,  as  she  is  invited, 
where  the  air  is  fine,  and  everything  of  the  best; 
and  she  's  the  lovable  woman,  Miss  Lisaveta. 
She  begged  and  prayed  Lady  Eleanor  to  go  to 
her." 

"Would  you  go,  too,  Joan?"  he  said,  after  a  long 
fit  of  musing  on  the  proposal. 

"If  it  was  put  upon  me,  I  would,  though  my  poor 
ould  father  is  the  worse  that  I  'm  not  with  him." 

"Whatever  I  do,  harm  is  sure  to  come  of  it,"  he 
concluded,  the  bitter  drop  infecting  his  tongue; 
"when  the  hawk  is  a  linnet,  you  may  trust  this  kind 
of  woman." 

"And  that  won't  be  till  the  starlings  lose  their 
bills,"  said  Joan;  "but  a  woman  that  's  not  good  is 
worse  left  to  herself.  I  'd  put  a  keeper  upon  her. 


CHILDREN    OF   LIR  161 

and  it  should  be  the  finest  in  the  barony,  and  that  's 

Miss  O'Connor." 

"Is  it,  indeed?"  answered  Philip,  his  eyes  smiling. 

"Is  there  none  nearer  than  Airgead  Ross  ?" 

It  seemed  to  him  he  was  in  his  beloved  solitude 

again,  hearing  the  voices  of  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  XII 

FREEDOM 

VOICES  of  the  sea  can  be  loud  and  turbulent 
about  an  old  Munster  castle  which  faces,  or 
even  breasts,  the  Atlantic ;  and  when  the  air  at  night- 
time, under  a  raging  moon,  sends  out  its  volleying 
cries,  the  wild  waters  leaping  to  them,  the  clouds  all 
tongues  of  fire  and  charges  of  tempest,  Renmore 
seems  to  reel  in  a  headlong  dance,  bewitched  like 
the  world  around. 

It  was  a  fearful  night.  Nothing  had  come  so  far 
of  Joan's  counsel  to  her  master ;  and  she  sat  in  the 
dim  obscurity  with  Lady  Liscarroll,  watching  how 
the  clouds  flew,  fire  and  thunder  on  their  wings, 
chasing  like  eagles  over  a  sky  all  in  movement. 
The  dinner-hour  was  past ;  but  no  candles  gave  light 
in  the  room;  her  lady  would  have  it  so.  "I  don't 
know  what  ails  me,"  said  Joan  at  last ;  "  't  is  n't 
drowsy  I  am,  but  heavy  as  lead — falling,  falling  be- 
fore me — and  frightened!  The  sky  comes  at  me 
like  a  mouth  roaring.  God  help  any  one  at  sea 

this  night." 

162 


FREEDOM  163 

"Go  to  bed,  my  child,"  said  her  mistress,  "go  and 
sleep  in  your  little  chamber  in  the  wall;  I  shall  not 
be  far  off.  What  makes  you  afraid?" 

"The  great  lightnings  and  this  thunder,"  said 
Joan.  "Oh,  Mother  of  God,  who  sent  it?  Hear  to 
the  screeching  of  the  winds !  But  I  '11  be  fast  asleep 
this  minute.  Good-night,  my  lady — the  power  that 
is  in  fire,  and  in  water,  and  in  the  blessed  ground  it- 
self, be  between  us  and  all  harm.  Amen !  My  dear 
lady,  for  your  husband's  and  your  father's  soul  say 
Amen!" 

Her  fear  was  contagious,  if  not  her  piety,  and  the 
strong  woman  without  imagination  shuddered.  "I 
do  say  Amen,  you  silly  child,"  she  replied,  "but- what 
are  those  strange  powers  you  call  on?" 

"The  power  that  goes  up  in  fire,  and  falls  in 
water,  and  lies  straight  in  the  earth — there  's  the 
living  and  the  dead  in  it,"  answered  the  girl,  "but 
I  'm  asleep  while  I  'm  talking.  Oh,  good-night." 

With  uncertain  steps,  as  of  a  sleep-walker,  she 
passed  slowly  from  the  room,  which  was  Lady  Lis- 
carroll's  bedchamber,  into  her  own.  Joan's  little 
cabin — it  was  hardly  more — had  been  taken  out  of 
the  thickness  of  the  wall.  Its  old  panelings  were 
concealed  by  a  worm-eaten  tapestry,  and  it  contained 
one  small  window,  before  which  the  insane  moon  ap- 
peared to  be  playing  pranks,  its  rays  darting  across 


164  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

the  barred  panes  fantastically,  to  be  quenched  in  the 
awful  clouds  that  pursued  them,  as  wolves  on  the 
track  of  a  herd  of  flying  fawns. 

The  girl,  like  most  Celtic  natures,  was  keenly  alive 
to  the  terror  and  the  magnificence  of  storms  in  which 
the  wheeled  lightning  flashed  through  heaven.  But 
to-night  her  uneasiness  grew,  as  in  obedience  to  some 
warning  voice  within  her ;  and,  as  she  lay  cowering, 
her  face  turned  from  the  glare  which  nevertheless 
enveloped  her  from  time  to  time,  she  fell  into  a  sleep 
that  shook  and  tossed  her  as  on  the  boiling  sea. 
How  long  the  nightmare  lasted  she  could  never  have 
told;  its  duration  was  not  to  be  reckoned  on  our 
earthly  timepieces ;  but  the  effect  was  to  mingle  out- 
side and  inside,  light  and  dark,  in  a  whirlwind,  a 
tumult,  that  deafened  reason  and  excited  fear  more 
heart-shaking  than  she  had  ever  known.  Sleep  was 
taken  by  the  throat,  hurled  out  upon  the  ocean  with 
its  seething,  hungry  waves.  A  host  of  conflicting 
sounds  came  rushing  about  her  ears,  and  she  sat  up 
awake,  so  terrified  that  she  would  have  called  to 
Lady  Liscarroll  had  she  dared.  Shame  at  her  cow- 
ardice would  not  let  her ;  but  the  poor  child  rose  and 
dressed  herself,  in  frightful  expectation  of  what 
must  befall  Renmore  if  the  storm  did  not  cease. 

Then  she  lay  down  and  waited,  for  her  mind 
would  not  consent  that  the  night  should  pass  without 


FREEDOM  165 

misfortune.  And  on  the  enormous  castle  wall  at 
which  she  kept  staring,  at  length  a  ray  glittered 
which  came  neither  from  moon  nor  storm ;  she  heard 
the  door  creak,  a  ghost  of  a  footfall  draw  near,  and 
some  one  was  at  her  bedside  looking  down  upon  her. 
Not  an  unknown,  or  she  must  have  screamed;  but 
even  with  eyes  turned  away  she  felt  it  was  the  pris- 
oner of  the  High  Room.  In  kindness,  no  doubt, 
anxious  that  Joan  should  sleep  during  the  fearful 
hurricane  which  had  gathered  strength,  hour  after 
hour,  until  the  castle  began  to  throb  as  with  a  beat- 
ing heart.  The  girl,  her  eyes  closed,  made  no  sign. 
Then  she  knew  that  Lady  Liscarroll  had  moved  away 
by  the  motion  of  the  light  she  carried;  but  instead 
of  returning  to  her  chamber,  she  was,  it  would  seem, 
examining  the  tapestry  below  Joan's  bed,  for  it 
flapped  backward  and  forward  as  if  shaken. 

Gazing  round  furtively,  what  the  astonished  girl 
beheld  was  a  bare  space  on  the  wall,  her  mistress 
putting  a  small  key  into  an  invisible  lock,  and  part 
of  the  tower  yielding  outwardly,  as  if  into  another 
room.  The  lady  wore  a  long  mantle,  and  she  had 
just  laid  from  her  a  shaded  light.  Before  two  sec- 
onds Joan  was  up,  had  seized  her  by  the  wrist,  and 
was  peering  by  turns  into  her  frowning  face  and 
down  a  flight  of  stone  steps  which  led  to  darkness. 
"God's  sake,  my  lady,  where  are  you  going  on  such  a 


166  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

night?"  she  tried  to  say;  but  the  words  came  in 
stifled  whispers. 

"Why  did  n't  you  stay  asleep,  Joan?  It  would 
have  been  better  for  you,"  answered  the  lady,  her 
brow  still  dark.  "I  have  got  the  key  of  the  gate 
below.  Where  am  I  going  ?  Into  the  storm.  This 
place  strangles  me." 

"But  you  must  not  lave  Sir  Philip  ? — you  're  run- 
ning from  him — what  will  he  say  when  he  sees 
you  're  gone?  On  a  night  like  this?  He  '11  think 
you  threw  yourself  into  the  water  and  I  did  n't 
hinder  it.  You  must  not  go." 

"Who  will  keep  me  back?  Mind,  I  never  hinted 
I  was  leaving  Renmore.  But  what  if  I  chose  to  do 
it?" 

"I  '11  follow  you  to  the  world's  end,"  answered 
Joan,  striving  to  get  in  front  of  her  on  the  dark 
stairs.  "I  '11  rise  the  place  on  you,"  and  that  thought 
made  her  glance  toward  the  door  by  which  Lady 
Liscarroll  had  entered,  but  it  was  shut;  moreover, 
she  dreaded  to  move  back,  lest  this  opening  should 
be  barred  against  her.  "Take  me  with  you,  or  go  to 
your  bed,"  she  repeated.  "Oh" — a  fearful  thought 
striking  her —  "is  it  to  meet  some  man  below  you  are 
fleeing  out  of  the  castle?" 

Her  mistress  laughed  loud  and  scornfully.  "How 
wise  these  babes  are !  Yes,  Joan,  there  is  a  man  at 


FREEDOM  167 

the  sea-gate;  can't  you  hear  him  knocking?  Come 
down  with  me,  since  you  will  have  it  so,  and  witness 
our  tete-a-tete  in  the  driving  rain.  You  little  fool," 
she  continued,  her  foot  on  the  stairs,  "you  shall  take 
my  son  a  message,  if  you  think  it  worth  while,  but 
first  let  us  get  our  meeting  over." 

The  fierce  playfulness  of  the  woman,  under  a  tem- 
pest which  flung  lightnings  about  them,  would  have 
scared  Joan,  but  something  held  her  up,  though  she 
thought  herself  dying.  Down  the  crooked,  broken 
stairs  they  huddled  together,  the  light  rushing  fan- 
tastically with  them  and  making  the  gloom  terrible, 
until  they  arrived  at  a  heavy  door  which  was  already 
swung  open  and  admitted  violent  gusts  from  the  sea. 
A  figure  stood  on  the  threshold  motionless. 

When  the  lantern  revealed  him,  Joan  saw  Will 
Hapgood.  But  Lady  Liscarroll's  face  indicated 
neither  fear  nor  astonishment.  "Ah,  it  is  my  un- 
known correspondent,"  she  muttered;  "even  on  a 
night  like  this  he  keeps  his  promise,"  and  speaking 
louder,  "but  who  are  you,  then  ?" 

So  swiftly  did  the  color  hunt  across  his  face  that 
by  turns  it  shone  crimson  and  dulled  to  an  ashy  pale- 
ness. Baring  his  head,  he  whispered  violently,  "At 
last  you  have  come.  I  wrote  and  wrote — had  n't 
you  my  letters  ?" 

All  his  blood  was  tingling.     The  lady  drew  back 


1 68  THE    WIZARD'S   KNOT 

upon  the  stairs  as  if  a  scorched  wind  beat  upon 
her. 

"You  got  my  letters?"  he  insisted. 

Joan  tried  to  throw  herself  between  them.  "For 
the  love  of  Heaven,"  she  cried,  the  storm  choking 
off  her  sentences,  "go  back,  my  lady,  shut  the  gate  on 
him.  Mr.  Hapgood,  return  the  way  you  came.  Are 
you  an  honest  woman's  son  ?  Out  of  this,  I  tell  you, 
though  't  was  into  the  sea  itself.  Will  I  screech  the 
house  down?" 

"Be  quiet,  Joan,"  said  Lady  Liscarroll,  "quiet,  girl ! 
I — so  you  are  Mr.  Hapgood,  and  you  wrote?"  with 
an  enigmatic  expression  turning  to  the  young  man. 
vSome  unconquerable  passion  in  his  eyes  leaped 
through  the  air  and  staggered  her,  as  if  she  had  re- 
ceived a  blow  from  his  right  arm,  raised  in  entreaty 
and  protestation. 

"I  am  Will  Hapgood,  of  Derryvore ;  you  don't  re- 
member me.  I  have  never  forgotten  you.  I  saw 
you  on  this  tower,  the  day  you  let  your  handkerchief 
fall  into  the  water.  I  got  it  out,  sent  it  you  by 
Philip,  and  letters  by  O' Sullivan.  He  never  gave 
them  ?  Oh,  I  am  unlucky !" 

The  whirlwind  could  not  drown  that  cry.  But 
the  fair  woman,  on  whose  face  the  light  was  con- 
centrated where  she  stood  above  in  the  narrow  en- 
trance, looked  him  up  and  down  with  admiration. 


FREEDOM  169 

"So  you  are  Will  Hapgood?  A  foolish,  bold  young 
man.  It  was  your  boat  I  flew  my  signal  to  ?  Yours, 
Will  Hapgood  ?  I  recognize  your  boy's  features  as 
on  the  day  you  ran  here  from  your  mother,  and  I 
did  you  a  good  turn  with  her.  Yes.  it  is  the  same 
lad." 

Her  dwelling  on  his  name — the  depth  of  some 
passion  (it  could  not  be  any  in  which  he  shared,  but 
it  was  real  and  intense)  betrayed  by  her  speaking 
eyes,  the  opposition  visible  in  her  maid's  attitude, 
wrought  such  a  ferment  in  Will's  brain  that  he  went 
clean  out  of  himself. 

"Yes,  my  boat,"  he  exclaimed;  "it  is  behind  the 
rock  here,  and  good  men  to  manage  it.  Come,  you 
are  free.  Now,  at  once,  no  delay !  You  don't  fear 
the  thunder? — not  you!" 

A  second  time  Joan  struggled  to  pull  back  Lady 
Liscarroll.  "I  will  raise  the  place,"  she  cried  pas- 
sionately ;  "don't  heed  this  crazy  boy ;  he  is  wild  with 
the  love  you  gave  him,  and  't  is  the  worst  sin  you 
ever  laid  to  your  soul." 

"As  sure  as  you  wake  the  castle."  said  her  mis- 
tress, holding  her,  "I  will  go  with  Mr.  Hapgood. 
See  if  that  will  profit  them." 

In  sore  bewilderment  the  girl  stood  irresolute. 
Hapgood  urged  his  plea.  "This  way,  then,"  he  said. 
His  hand  was  grasping  her  shoulder,  when  the  lady 


i  yo  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

put  it  firmly  aside.  "You  are  a  high-spirited  fel- 
low," she  answered,  "but  where  would  you  take  me? 
We  can't  go  on  the  winds,  like  the  Flying  Dutch- 
man." 

"Everything  is  settled,"  was  the  impatient  reply; 
"you  come  with  me.  There  's  a  cottage."  He  looked 
at  Joan,  shook  his  head  and  continued.  "Must  n't 
tell  you  here.  I  will  carry  you  wherever  you  please ; 
the  world  is  wide ;  I  am  here  to  live  and  die  for  you." 

None  of  this  impassioned  talk  but  was  cut  and 
slashed  by  the  storm-winds,  devoured  by  thunders 
falling  on  it  out  of  a  rain-darkened  sky.  It  had 
pauses  of  deep  and  dangerous  meaning;  but  now  a 
red  stain  appeared  in  it,  more  dreadful  than  the 
gloom  of  that  night. 

"By  the  great  God  above,  I  will  tell  Sir  Philip," 
cried  Joan,  her  nerves  quivering.  "My  lady,  I  never 
yet  spied  on  your  doings,  nor  was  I  watching  to  tell 
on  you.  That  door  I  never  saw  open  till  this  minute. 
But  I  say  to  you  and  this  man  from  the  mad  waters, 
don't  trust  me.  Go,  and  your  son  will  hear  from  me 
the  road  ye  took,  and  who  't  was  that  opened  the 
castle  with  the  keys  he  stole.  'T  is  n't  you  will 
silence  or  soften  me,"  turning  to  Hapgood.  And  to 
her  mistress,  "Do  now,  woman — kill  your  son  as 
you  killed  your  husband.  Can  you  deny  it  ?" 

These  wicked  creatures,  charged  home,  are  not 


FREEDOM  171 

invulnerable.  For  the  first  time  during  the  inter- 
view Lady  Liscarroll's  blood  mounted  to  her  brow. 

"My  dear  squire,"  she  -said,  recovering,  "I  cannot 
let  you  be  hurt.  Who  talked  of  injury  to  my  son?" 
she  continued,  with  a  haughty  glance  toward  Joan. 
"When  I  was  first  mewed  up  here,  I  might  have 
taken  your  offer.  But  now,  these  doors  are  un- 
bolted, and  I  will  not  pass  them  lest  Philip  should 
think  me  unkind.  We  shall  meet  again,  Will  Hap- 
good —  Ah,  what  is  that  awful  noise  ?"  she  shrieked. 

More  than  a  noise — the  resounding  clatter  of  great 
masses  torn  from  above,  which  fell  past  them  in 
thunder  on  the  strand.  "Good  God,  you  will  be 
killed,"  she  cried,  thrusting  him  from  her;  "get  to 
your  boat;  leave  this  doomed  house."  For  other 
huge  fragments  came  down,  and  at  the  door  of  the 
High  Room  they  could  hear  violent  blows,  and  the 
confused  cry  of  men  broke  on  their  ears  from  out- 
side. "Let  me  alone,  girl,"  as  Joan  still  hung  upon 
her  skirts,  "I  am  not  escaping.  To  your  boat, 
Will,  for  my  sake." 

She  had  shut  the  gate  and  turned  hastily  upstairs, 
her  attendant  at  her  heels.  Tearing  aside  the  tapes- 
try, which  now  hung  in  rags,  she  passed  into  the 
High  Room,  where  the  hammering  at  the  door  con- 
tinued and  a  tumult  of  voices,  Philip's  loud  above 
the  rest :  "Open,  open ;  it  is  I — your  son,  Philip !" 


172  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

On  throwing  the  door  wide  she  saw  him,  with  Ed- 
mund and  O' Sullivan,  who  entered  in  violent  agi- 
tation. "You  must  leave  this  immediately,"  cried 
Philip,  "the  tower  is  falling.  Are  you  safe,  mother  ? 
Thank  God,  thank  God!  Is  Joan? — ah,  you  are 
up — no  wonder !" 

"Huge  pieces  of  the  battlements  have  come  down," 
said  his  cousin,  "and  the  floor  shakes.  Come,"  as 
Lady  Liscarroll  seemed  to  hesitate. 

Her  significant  looks  had  drawn  the  steward  to  her 
side.  "Shut  the  stair  door,"  she  whispered.  But 
the  young  men  had  gone  into  Joan's  cabin  and  re- 
marked the  open  door  with  the  tapestry  fluttering 
around  it. 

"See  how  the  wind  has  shaken  that  panel  loose," 
said  Philip. 

"No  matter ;  the  stairs  have  long  been  broken  and 
unsafe.  But  why  do  we  linger?"  returned  Ed- 
mund. "Hear  to  that,  Phil !"  And  they  ran  back 
to  the  central  room  as  a  monstrous  weight  of  stone 
shot  across  the  window,  eclipsing  the  moon  in  its 
descent  and  plunging  madly  into  the  waves. 

"The  ridge  of  the  roof  will  be  in  on  us,"  cried 
O' Sullivan,  as  they  fled;  "'t  is  the  last  night  of  the 
Gray  Tower,"  and  his  singular  expression  of  horror 
and  dislike  seemed  to  settle  on  Joan,  who  was  be- 
hind her  mistress.  "Some  enchantment  is  loosen- 


FREEDOM  173 

ing  the  stones,  throwing  them  to  Manannan  to  build 
a  castle  under  the  waters.  Is  it  your  doing,  Joan 
O'Dwyer?" 

So  virulent  was  his  tone  that  she  turned  to  look 
him  full  in  the  face,  and  then  a  suspicion  made  her 
ask,  "What  did  you  put  in  the  broth  I  had  at  sup- 
per?*' But  she  was  sorry  the  minute  after  she  had 
spoken. 

"Och,  nothing  but  slanlus  and  a  pinch  of  lusmor," 
said  he,  with  a  grim  smile;  "your  dada  would  tell 
you  there  's  no  herbs  wholesomer." 

She  knew  the  villain  was  lying,  but  made  no  re- 
ply. Her  imagination — and  her  lady's,  as  she 
guessed — was  abroad  on  the  sea,  watching  Will 
Hapgood's  boat  in  an  agony  of  presentiment  that 
from  the  tower  some  fatal  mass  should  be  hurled 
and  sink  it  in  the  Atlantic. 

But  they  were  quitting  the  prison  which  so  many 
forlorn  days  haunted;  and,  on  the  stairs,  the  lights 
flickered,  the  wings  of  hurricane  rustled  ominously 
round  them;  while  crash  after  crash  the  thunder 
rolled,  announcing  some  great  event  in  heaven. 
"Where  do  I  sleep  to-night?"  asked  the  lady  of  her 
son,  on  whose  arm  she  leaned  occasionally.  Had 
Mrs.  Driscoll,  who  knew  all  her  ways  of  old,  been 
there,  she  would  have  discovered  in  her  looks  a  mix- 
ture of  fear  and  triumph  such  as  the  shipwrecked 


174  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

may  feel  whose  vessel  has  gone  down  but  themselves 
have  escaped. 

"You  sleep  in  the  large  guest-room,"  he  answered. 

"It  will  serve,"  she  said,  with  a  curious  smile. 
"Has  it  always  the  furniture  of  Marie  Antoinette 
from  the  Grand  Trianon?" 

"Nothing  has  been  altered  since  you  saw  it,"  said 
he. 

"That  is  more  than  ten  years  ago,"  she  murmured ; 
and  Edmund,  who  caught  the  remark,  was  aston- 
ished that  she  should  touch  that  red-hot  iron.  Was 
it  repentance  or  remorse? 

The  tower  door  closed  behind  them;  they  were 
on  the  marble  Florentine  staircase,  when  an  appal- 
ling tumult  proclaimed  that,  after  centuries  of 
wrestling,  the  night  winds  had  conquered  the  proud 
keep  of  Renmore.  An  earthquake  passed  under 
their  feet.  They  could  hear  the  masonry  rushing 
down,  floor  descending  upon  floor,  the  wall  at  their 
back  straining  and  groaning,  as  if  it  must  fall  with 
the  rest.  All  stood  listening,  an  icy  dread  about 
their  hearts,  so  pierced  with  horror  and  gaping  on 
the  next  moment,  which  they  might  not  outlive,  that 
the  women  forgot  to  scream,  the  men  did  not  stir 
from  their  place.  Sounds  as  of  enormous  masses 
settling  down  followed  the  chief  explosion.  It  was 
a  risk  to  stay  in  the  house,  an  adventure  to  go  forth 


FREEDOM  175 

into  the  howling  night.  They  decided  to  stay, 
and  spent  the  miserable  hours  awake,  attending  to 
the  irregular  thuds  and  hollow  grumblings  of  the 
stones,  which  gave  way  in  the  darkness,  until  day 
broke. 

Then  it  was  seen  that  more  than  half  the  tower 
had  fallen,  carrying  with  it  the  High  Room,  and 
strewing  with  its  wreck  the  silver  sands.  O' Sulli- 
van's foreboding  was  accomplished.  But  the  sea 
chanted  its  eternal  music,  and  the  winds  flew  joy- 
ously about  the  ruins  which  they  had  made. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
IUBHDAN'S  MINSTRELSIES 

EVENTS  have  a  face  for  the  world,  but  a  heart 
for  those  who  are  implicated  in  their  conse- 
quences. And  these  are  not  always  alike.  His 
neighbors  condoled  with  Sir  Philip,  who  had  lost  the 
jewel  of  his  inheritance,  thanks  to  a  storm  which 
figured  long  afterward  in  men's  talk.  His  own 
feeling  was  deeper  and  different.  As  soon  as  he 
could  get  speech  of  his  cousin — they  were  naturally 
in  a  whirl  of  business  for  days  after  the  destruction 
of  the  tower — he  said  without  preface,  "Edmund, 
my  mother  must  not  stay  here." 

"I  thought  you  would  tell  me  so,"  replied  the 
other;  "you  fancy — " 

"I  don't  fancy — I  am  certain.  My  father  will  not 
have  her  in  the  house  with  him.  Rather,  he  would 
pull  it  down  to  the  last  stone." 

"With  him?"  inquired  the  poet,  taken  aback. 
"/  might  argue  on  this  kind  of.  supposition,  and 
people  would  say  it  was  the  Leannan  Sidhe  over- 

176 


lUBHDAN'S   MINSTRELSIES  177 

shadowed  me.  Where,  in  God's  name,  did  you  come 
by  it?" 

"Laugh  at  me  if  you  please.  Well,  you  don't — 
so  much  the  better.  I  tell  you  my  father  has  come 
to  me  in  dreams,  night  after  night,  his  face  flushed 
with  an  angry  blood — above  all,  when  my  heart  was 
softening  toward  her.  As  I  went  about  these  rooms, 
I  felt  he  was  in  them — close  to  me.  I  could  almost 
put  out  my  hand  to  touch  him.  Something  without 
a  voice — do  you  understand,  Eddie,  not  a  voice,  but  a 
thought  that  lays  hold  of  you  ? — said  I  was  torturing 
him  in  his  grave  by  letting  her  stay  here.  Then, 
as  I  would  n't  be  guided,  did  he  call  up  the  winds 
and  sweep  the  High  Room  into  space.  You  wise 
men  can't  teach  us  fools  anything  we  want  to 
know." 

His  cousin  answered,  "I  am  really  not  super- 
stitious, though  I  talk  so,  especially  when  Cathal 
O'Dwyer  is  about.  Don't  ask  me  to  explain.  What 
will  you  do?"  Frankly  had  he  spoken,  he  would 
have  told  Philip  it  was  all  insane;  the  ghost  was 
Lady  Liscarroll,  not  Sir  Walter,  that  had  driven  the 
young  man  mad. 

"Joan  O'Dwyer  said  there  was  an  invitation  to 
Silverwood — that  day  Miss  O'Connor  made  her  way 
in.  Is  there  ?" 

No  question  could  have  been  more  unwelcome  to 


178  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

Edmund,  better  by  far  acquainted  with  Lisaveta's 
idealizing  temper  than  was  Philip.  But  evasion 
would  not  mend  matters;  he  was  compelled  to 
answer. 

"Then  she  shall  accept.  Once  there,  I  need  not 
see  her  often ;  I  can  get  thoroughly  round  when  this 
sore  in  my  heart  is  gone." 

"And  who  will  see  that  it  does  not  spread  disease 
at  Silverwood  ?" 

"Oh,  Joan  will  go  with  her.  That  girl  has  char- 
acter, I  tell  you — steady  as  a  rock.  She  will  do  any- 
thing for  me.  I  '11  make  her  keep  a  sharp  lookout 
and  tell  me  all  that  goes  on." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is  the  best  bad  thing  to  be  done. 
I  can't  say  I  like  it,  Phil.  There  's  Miss  O'Connor 
to  be  thought  of." 

"Think  of  her  yourself,"  replied  his  cousin,  testily, 
with  the  peevish  air  of  convalescence.  "Take  her 
and  Airgead  Ross,  too,  and  be  happier  than  you  '11 
ever  see  me,  old  boy." 

"We  will  do  everything  to  help  you,"  said  the 
younger  man,  softening.  "I  have  a  good  excuse  to 
be  over  there  these  days.  Miss  O'Connor  wants  my 
advice — such  as  it  is — how  to  manage  her  tenants. 
We  have  begun  a  regular  confabulation,  herself,  the 
agent,  and  I.  Then  she  has  old  Irish  customs  on  the 
brain — that  is  my  doing,  the  other  is  n't;  we  are 


lUBHDAN'S   MINSTRELSIES  179 

getting  ready  for  such  a  May  Day  as  was  never  seen 
since  the  Battle  of  Gebhra.  But  don't  stay  away 
altogether,  Philip.  It  will  put  us  in  the  wrong." 

"It  kills  me  to  see  my  mother,"  answered  Philip, 
with  a  groan,  "and  not  seeing  her  is  as  bad.  I  don't 
know  what  I  will  do.  Tell  her  from  me  to  accept 
your  friend's  invitation." 

"Your  friend  too,"  said  his  cousin;  but  the  other 
was  not  heeding. 

"It  is  my  turn  to  be  on  the  spit,"  thought  Edmund ; 
"how  will  this  poison  act  on  a  nature  like  Lisaveta's  ? 
Will  it  shatter  the  Venetian  glass?  or  strike  on  its 
fine  edge  and  be  cast  back?  Saint  and  sinner  don't 
match.  Then  that  Russian  frenzy !  I  can't  see  the 
road  before  me." 

HOWEVER,  it  was  done.  On  a  sunshiny  morning 
at  the  end  of  March,  under  skies  of  misty  blue,  they 
drove  across  the  hills  into  a  wide  and  winding  glen, 
fringed  on  both  sides  with  silver  birch,  that  gave  a 
name  to  Airgead  Ross. 

The  hazel,  rowan,  and  willow  stood  or  stooped 
about  these  glittering  water-courses,  and  the  Spanish 
chestnuts  grew  in  noble  clumps,  making  a  delightful 
shade.  Underwoods  of  fresh  and  fairy  green,  con- 
spicuous among  them  the  tall  Osmunda,  came  almost 
up  to  the  carriage  wheels;  little  pools,  cups  of  sun- 


i8o  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

light,  spilt  their  brimming  treasures  on  a  rich  brown 
earth,  in  places  thick  with  leaf-mold,  out  of  which 
the  crocus  and  the  violet  peeped.  Blackbirds  sang 
loud  above  a  thousand  warblers,  busy  on  branch, 
flitting  saucily  across  the  over-arching  fretwork  that 
made  a  screen  against  the  vaporous  heaven.  And 
as  the  side-car  which  Philip  drove  turned  up  toward 
a  long  white  mansion  nestling  close  into  the  hill, 
they  could  see  the  golden-gray  waves  of  the  creek 
laughing  back  to  them  through  a  tracery  of  fine 
sweeping  boughs,  fragrant  as  with  apple-blossom. 
The  land,  the  ocean,  seemed  to  sparkle  in  a  powder 
of  gold,  scattered  over  all  things  from  the  mild  early 
sun,  which  was  warm  and  not  fierce.  Joan  felt 
almost  light  of  heart  now  they  were  leaving  Ren- 
more.  But  as  she  glanced  at  Philip,  and  thought 
of  Will  Hapgood  on  that  unspeakable  night,  a  say- 
ing of  her  father's  darkened  the  air :  "No  man's  life, 
however  bold,  is  more  than  an  eyelid's  twinkle." 
What  a  secret  she  carried  in  her  bosom ! 

Lisaveta  met  them  on  the  mountain  lawn,  serious 
though  smiling.  She  kissed  Lady  Liscarroll's 
cheek,  and  caught  Joan  to  her  heart,  too  shy  for 
words,  throwing  toward  Edmund  a  look  of  saintly, 
yet  girlish  defiance.  After  all  his  talk,  she  had  her 
way;  trial  or  expiation,  the  second  act  was  begin- 
ning. "This  might  be  in  the  Swiss  country,"  said 


lUBHDAN'S    MINSTRELSIES  181 

Lady  Liscarroll,  breathing  free;  "how  beautiful  is 
your  green  Alp!" 

"Edmund  says  it  is  the  true  fairyland,  the  King- 
dom of  Donn  Firinne,"  answered  her  hostess.  "We 
have  the  yellowest  of  sands,  the  greenest  of  trees, 
the  tiniest  of  silver  fountains,  all  shut  in  by  yonder 
bareheaded  hills.  Don't  you  call  it,  Edmund,  the 
glen  of  the  Luchra  ? — and  those  are  the  chief  of  the 
good  people,  are  n't  they?" 

"Where  the  branches  of  the  wood  play,  as  you 
are  hearing,  like  stringed  instruments,"  answered  the 
poet,  "their  undertones  in  soft  accord  with  the  harp 
of  lubhdan,  king  and  musician,  who  sets  them  going, 
if  the  old  story  is  true,  with  a  touch  of  his  finger." 

The  intense  purity,  thrice  bathed  in  sea  and  sun, 
of  all  things  about  them  made  this  fanciful  dialogue 
seem  in  keeping;  a  wave  of  joy  swept  over  their 
sadder  thoughts.  "Come  in  first,  and  get  posses- 
sion," said  Lisaveta;  "we  will  share  bread  and  salt 
and  fire,  then  out  into  these  little  dells ;  I  '11  show  you 
where  I  spend  every  hour  I  am  at  liberty." 

In  they  went,  to  a  house  not  so  large  as  Renmore, 
and  far  from  as  old,  bright  instead  of  melancholy, 
modern  in  its  appointments,  yet  strange  enough  to 
announce  that  O'Connor's  daughter  knew  how  to 
fashion  a  world  in  her  own  likeness.  The  rooms 
had  no  crowding  of  ill-assorted  styles;  they  wrere 


i82  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

almost  Greek  in  their  severity,  with  woods  in  the 
natural  grain  for  wall-papers,  tiger-  and  wolf-skins 
for  carpets,  no  gilding  anywhere,  and  but  religious 
pictures,  icons  on  a  gold  or  silver  ground,  in  lucid 
colors,  stately  and  slender,  which  made  of  the  house 
a  shrine. 

One  exquisite  piece  of  marble  shone  white  among 
these  grave  Eastern  saints — a  girl  in  royal  raiment, 
its  border  crimson  with  serpents  interlaced,  a  thin 
yellow  fillet  binding  her  hair,  which  flowed  loose 
behind,  her  face  lifted  as  though  she  sang,  her  hands 
clasped  over  a  throbbing  heart.  You  looked  down, 
and  at  the  girl's  feet  a  young  warrior  lay  dead,  the 
bronze  spear  by  his  side,  the  shield  with  its  golden 
knobs  held  in  a  grasp  that  would  never  relax  again ; 
he  was  clad  in  scale  armor,  and  his  face  had  the 
maiden's  beauty,  boldly  rendered.  On  seeing  a 
group  so  lifelike,  Joan  started  back.  Her  air  of  as- 
tonishment made  Edmund  smile.  "Don't  you  guess 
who  these  are?"  he  inquired  of  her. 

"They  're  alive  and  they  're  dead,"  she  answered, 
wondering  more  and  more.  "Poor  girl,  her  heart 
is  broke ;  't  is  that  puts  the  song  on  her  lips.  Indeed, 
Mr.  Edmund,  I  'd  cry  myself  was  I  long  looking  at 
the  two  of  them." 

"It  is  the  saddest,  the  tenderest  of  the  Three 
Sorrows  of  Story-telling/  Joan,"  he  said.  "Deirdre 


lUBHDAN'S   MINSTRELSIES  183 

lamenting  over  the  death  of  Naesi,  her  youngest 
brother.  When  her  song  is  done,  she  will  lie  in 
the  grave  by  his  side.  An  Irish  sculptor  carved  it." 

"Yes,  Owen  O'Reilly,  that  neglected  youth  of 
genius,"  cried  Lisaveta.  "It  was  his  last  work. 
My  father  found  him  starving  in  Petersburg,  and 
gave  him  this  commission.  He  lived  just  long 
enough  to  finish  all  but  a  little  of  the  ornaments ;  we 
would  not  have  them  touched.  There  was  to  have 
been  a  jeweled  torque  round  the  neck  of  Deirdre." 

Philip  had  been  silently  inspecting  the  features 
of  the  marble  maid.  "Where  did  O'Reilly  get  that 
face?"  he  inquired.  "Look  at  it,  Miss  O'Connor. 
Is  it  like  any  person  you  ever  saw?" 

She  considered  the  statue  fixedly,  gave  a  slight 
start,  and  turned  to  Joan.  "My  dear,  how  was  it 
I  waited  until  now  to  see  what  was  before  my  eyes  ? 
Do  you  look — it  is  yourself !" 

"Oh,  not  for  the  wide  world!"  exclaimed  Joan; 
"don't  believe  it;  don't  say  it  ever."  She  was 
shaking  from  head  to  foot. 

"Why,  what  makes  you  all  of  a  tremble?"  asked 
the  Russian  girl.  "Another  of  your  endless  Mun- 
ster  pishogues?  Edmund,  can  you  explain?"  as 
Joan  refused  obstinately  to  say  a  syllable. 

"  'T  is  a  relic  of  superstitions  so  ancient,"  he  re- 
plied somewhat  uneasily,  "that  I  know  of  them  only 


184  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

by  hearsay.  The  people  used  to  think  if  an  image 
was  made  of  man  or  woman,  their  life  would  sink 
into  it,  be  swallowed  up  in  the  clay  of  the  thing. 
Old  witchcraft  used  to  practise  on  these  fears." 

"Well,  it  was  not  from  you  O'Reilly  got  the  like- 
ness," said  Lisaveta,  putting  her  arm  round  the 
frightened  girl.  "He  traveled  the  country  and  saw 
some  cousin  of  yours — don't  mind  it  any  more,  Joan, 
dear.  We  will  go  up  now  to  your  rooms." 

But  Joan  kept  her  terrified  gaze  on  the  statue  for 
several  minutes,  while  the  rest  moved  off.  "I  'm 
there  in  the  white  stone,  singing,"  she  thought  to 
herself,  "and  that  is  buachal  in  his  grave  at  my  feet. 
'T  is  no  use  to  be  talking;  half  the  life  is  gone  out  of 
me  already.  I  '11  never  have  a  day's  health  after 
this." 

An  inconceivable  feeling  of  dislike  and  affection 
for  this  marble  counterfeit  of  herself  sprang  up  in 
the  child;  she  was,  or  would  surely  pass  into,  the 
figure  of  Deirdre — alone  and  not  alone — killed  with 
consuming  grief. 

Henceforth,  Airgead  Ross,  for  Joan  O'Dwyer, 
was  the  place  of  the  statue,  haunted  day  and  night  by 
her  silent  image,  her  ghost  or  double. 

But  the  day,  as  they  tramped  on  the  golden  sea- 
weed and  crunched  under  foot  the  white  sand,  was 
too  glorious  for  the  weeping  strain ;  men  have  these 


lUBHDAN'S   MINSTRELSIES  185 

felicities  between  hours  of  torment.  "My  heart  is 
like  a  sieve,  holed  by  some  sharp-toothed  beast," 
said  Joan,  by  whom  Sir  Phil  was  walking,  "since  I 
set  eyes  on  that  Deirdre,  yet  I  could  n't  be  miserable 
here  in  the  sun." 

They  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  confidence,  unspoken 
but  assured;  this  fairyland  was  their  own — a  soft, 
transparent  brightness,  in  which  they  moved  to  the 
sound  of  lubhdan's  minstrelsies,  shaking  out  sweet 
laughter  from  the  branches,  echoing  down  the  rills 
that  shivered  with  delight  as  they  were  churned  into 
white  water.  Purple  as  evening  clouds,  the  hills 
hung  in  a  sky  now  fancifully  brushed  with  rainy 
outlines,  which  were  dark  and  then  light  as  the  wind 
swept  them  away  toward  the  east.  "You  will  be  hap- 
pier than  at  the  castle,"  answered  Philip.  "I  shall 
miss  your  little  songs,  Joan,"  he  went  on  abruptly, 
"but  there  is  a  thing  I  want  to  ask  before  I  leave." 

"Wisha,  don't,  Sir  Philip,"  said  the  girl,  her 
temples  flushing;  "don't  now  bring  sorrow  into  the 
day.  Ask  me  no  questions  and  I  '11  tell  you  no  lies," 
she  concluded  merrily,  stooping  to  pull  some  quiet 
gray  water-blossom  and  holding  it  out  for  him  to 
see.  "Look,  there  's  a  creature  of  God  was  living 
with  itself  happy  in  the  nest  of  the  rock,  and  I 
killed  it,"  she  said ;  "let  me  be,  Sir  Philip,  or  you  '11 
have  me  destroyed  the  same  way." 


i86  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

He  snatched  the  sea-bloom  out  of  her  hand. 
"You  're  brighter  than  that,"  he  said  hastily,  "nor 
was  I  meaning  to  hurt  you.  My  request  was  that 
you  would  let  me  hear  if  she — if  my  mother — they're 
gone  on  ahead,  I  must  take  the  chance  while  I  have 
it — should  be  doing  what  I  don't  want." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  reply,  "Put 
your  commands  on  Miss  O'Connor,"  had  she  not 
looked  up  at  his  glowing  eyes,  stern  and  passionate. 
The  words  shriveled  as  before  a  hot  coal. 

"You  promise  me,"  he  reiterated,  while  they 
paused  without  a  motion,  feeling  how  grave  the  sit- 
uation was  between  them.  Joan  sighed,  and  shook 
her  head.  "I  '11  wrong  nayther  you  nor  her,"  she 
replied,  with  sorrowful  determination.  "An  in- 
former is  what  I  never  yet  was,  nor  could  be.  I  'd 
die  first.  They  say  women  are  false  and  sly.  If 
't  is  so,  I  'm  no  woman  of  them  at  all." 

"You  are  a  provoking  little  fairy,"  cried  Phil,  not 
knowing  what  a  heat  he  threw  into  the  words  be- 
tween his  temper  and  his  admiration ;  "I  did  n't  ask 
you  to  do  mischief,  but  to  hinder  it." 

"I  'm  fond  of  your  mother  in  spite  of  all  she  has 
done,"  said  his  companion,  slowly.  "I  could  not  be 
the  black  spider,  spinning  a  web  to  take  her,  though 
it  was  to  lighten  your  own  heart,  sir.  God  knows,  I 
think  worse  of  all  that  's  on  you  than  if  the  trouble 


lUBHDAN'S   MINSTRELSIES  187 

struck  in  here,"  smiting  her  breast  unconsciously, 
"and  I  gave  myself  a  promise" — she  was  thinking  of 
the  outcry  she  had  made  to  prevent  the  lady's  flight 
with  Will  Hapgood — "but 't  is  my  secret.  I  '11  not 
tell  it  nor  go  from  it.  Will  that  satisfy  you?" 

The  word  was  more  than  she  meant.  It  shot 
beyond  one  mark  and  went  straight  to  another. 

There  is  an  hour  in  the  wonder-working  spell — 
Nature's  supreme  enchantment  with  man  and  maid 
— when  trust  is  all  in  all,  faith  lives  in  the  music  of 
a  voice,  the  miraculous  blossoms.  It  stood  shining 
above  them.  That  day  seas  and  skies,  sun  and 
clouds  and  spring,  in  its  white  glory,  conspired 
against  these  two.  Their  souls  melted  into  unknown 
tenderness,  belief,  worship  of  one  another ;  and  lubh- 
dan,  the  fairy  minstrel,  laughed  and  sang  delicately, 
mockingly,  as  if  to  every  note  they  must  throb  and 
shiver.  He,  the  hero,  not  beautiful  on  vulgar  lines, 
but  a  man  that  had  sprung  through  fire,  its  ruddy 
light  still  on  his  brows,  savagely  earnest,  his  word 
a  pulsing  vein  that  would  bleed  were  it  cut  into. 
Quite  unsmirched  by  the  world's  dusty  ways;  shy 
and  bold  and  passion-wrought  to  the  highest  he 
should  ever  attain;  at  this  magnetic  moment  fault- 
less. And  she,  not  more  innocent  (believe  it,  though 
incredible),  a  flower  like  the  Dark  Roseen,  some 
strange  rich  light  streaming  along  every  fiber,  dew 


i88  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

on  every  petal  sparkling,  the  life  within  one  radiant 
blush,  confessed  and  unashamed.  "Will  that  sat- 
isfy you,  Sir  Philip?"  said  the  lips,  harmlessly,  tell- 
ing the  whole  tale. 

They  laughed;  they  were  sad;  they  knew  each 
other's  heart ;  the  hour  had  come  of  divine  melan- 
choly and  rapture.  In  the  shadow  of  death  they 
laughed.  Had  she  been  a  woman  of  his  degree, 
Philip  would  have  caught  her  hand,  flung  forth  the 
decisive  word — and  they  were  pledged.  But  the 
most  exquisite  chivalry  kept  him  at  his  distance. 
Faultless,  and  in  love;  such  is  heroic  youth  in  the 
noblest. 

"I  am  satisfied  now,  Joan."  His  tongue  could 
never  be  eloquent.  Their  eyes  made  up  for  it. 
"Here  is  my  mother;  I  must  say  good-by."  The 
fairy  harper's  finest  string  was  all  a-tremble  as  their 
hands  met  and  parted. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CASTING    A    HOROSCOPE 

MISS  O'CONNOR  was  seated  at  a  table  covered 
with  piles  of  documents,  Edmund  Liscarroll 
turning  them  over  in  moody  discontent,  and  the 
suave  Mr.  Nagle,  agent  at  Silverwood,  identifying 
with  a  pair  of  compasses  the  holdings  on  his  map  of 
the  estate.  A  clear  morning  threw  its  ray  on  the 
marble  group  of  Deirdre  and  her  dead  brother  not 
far  from  them. 

"The  more  you  explain  the  less  I  perceive  any  end 
but  one  to  it,"  said  Lisaveta,  musing  and  unhappy. 

"What  end  do  you  see?"  asked  Edmund.  "I  see 
none." 

"Let  us  take  a  view  of  the  whole  dismal  prospect," 
she  replied.  "From  your  maps,  plans,  leases,  rent- 
rolls,  lists  of  tenants,  sub-tenants  and  their  tenants 
again,  Mr.  Nagle,  I  conclude  that  on  my  seven  thou- 
sand acres  I,  the  landlady,  must  be  answerable  for 
five  thousand  human  creatures,  all  poor,  most  of 
them  wretched,  numbers  famishing." 

"You  take  a  very  high  standard  of  obligation,  very 
189 


190 


THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 


high  indeed,  madam,"  replied  Mr.  Nagle,  a  quiet, 
gray-haired  man,  of  medium  height,  polished  and 
agreeable  in  his  manners,  which  bore  the  stamp  of 
the  old  school  in  their  marked  deference  to  the  per- 
son he  was  addressing.  "The  landlord  has  his  cov- 
enants with  the  middlemen,  beyond  which,  in  law 
certainly,  he  is  not  bound.  Subletting  has  done  the 
harm  and  multiplied  this  unproductive  population; 
but  as  no  jury  would  have  enforced  the  clauses 
against  it,  I  am  of  opinion  that  the  landlord  is  not 
to  blame." 

"But,  Mr.  Nagle,  it  is  my  land;  I  get  rent  from 
every  yard  of  it." 

"The  middleman  used  to  get  five  times  as  much," 
said  Liscarroll,  "and  the  man  under  him  more  again. 
We  know  that,  to  our  cost,  on  the  Renmore  prop- 
erty." 

"You  have  every  reason  to  say  so,"  answered  Mr. 
Nagle.  "These  estates,  and  I  could  mention  a  score 
besides,  have  all  been  let  on  one  system.  The  head 
landlord  gave  leases  for  lives,  to  increase  his 
political  importance.  Then  the  middleman  exacted 
the  highest  rent,  and  did  well  during  the  war  with 
France,  which  made  money  plentiful.  Now  we  have 
peace  prices  but  war  rents;  interminable  under- 
letting— " 

"And  the  throngs  of  beggars  round  this  door 


CASTING  A   HOROSCOPE  191 

every  morning,  hungry  as  fieldfares  in  the  snow," 
concluded  Miss  O'Connor.  "But  we  still  get  our 
rents.  How  can  I  take  them  with  a  clear  con- 
science? What  return  do  I,  Elizabeth  Charlotte 
O'Connor,  make  to  the  five  thousand  wretches  that 
earn  them?" 

"More  than  your  absentee  neighbors,"  said  the 
agent,  smiling,  "not  that  I  yield  to  the  popular  fallacy 
regarding  absentees.  Many  of  the  great  English 
noblemen's  estates  are  exceedingly  well  managed. 
Over-population  is  the  national  scourge." 

"Let  me,  as  a  fool  and  a  poet,  throw  in  my 
bauble,"  said  Edmund.  "After  all,  did  you  ever 
meet  a  happier,  brighter,  kinder  people  than  you  live 
among,  Miss  O'Connor  ?  Don't  they  sing  and  dance 
— as  they  '11  do  here  on  your  lawn  at  May  Day? 
Their  hearts  are  like  a  feather,  though  they  have  n't 
a  sixpence  in  the  thatch.  What  more  would  you 
want?" 

The  girl  eyed  him  questioningly.  "Your  talk  is 
harder  than  your  heart,  Edmund,  or  I  should  tell  you 
to  go  down  and  taste  the  fever  in  these  streets  of 
cabins,  with  hunger  to  give  it  an  edge.  Like  a  true- 
born  Irishman,  as  you  can't  cure  the  disease,  you 
play  jigs  to  it.  Now,  does  n't  Renmore  cut  you  to 
the  quick?  Be  candid." 

"What  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured,"  he  said; 


192  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

"there  's  an  old  song  for  you  we  have  sung  time  out 
of  mind.  Candid  should  I  be?  Well,  then,  Miss 
Lisaveta,  the  fortune  of  Ireland  is  before  you  in 
O'Reilly's  piece  of  statuary.  The  soldier  will  be 
killed  out,  as  you  see  him  there — poor,  proud,  im- 
provident boy — and  the  woman  will  raise  a  keen  over 
his  corpse  till  one  grave  swallows  them  both.  The 
country  is  doomed." 

"Oh,  you  have  watched  the  shadow  growing  larger 
— as  I  have  watched  it.  The  end — it  is  the  end 
of  our  nation,  if  not  of  our  race,"  she  exclaimed, 
heart-stricken.  "We  are  all  to  blame;  none  of 
us  can  get  off.  But  the  people,  who  have  sinned 
a  thousand  times  less  than  ourselves,  will  suffer 
most." 

"There  is  every  hope  of  an  excellent  crop  this  year, 
at  any  rate,"  said  Mr.  Nagle;  "from  all  parts  I  am 
told  the  potatoes  were  never  looking  better." 

"They  failed  last  season,  and  the  season  before, 
did  they  not?"  inquired  Lisaveta,  turning  on  the 
polite  man  almost  savagely.  He  bowed. 

"To  a  lamentable  extent  they  did.  Our  peasants' 
farming  is,  I  regret  to  say,  ignorant  and  careless. 
The  land  is  burnt  up,  overrun  with  weeds,  exhausted 
by  bad  cropping,  against  every  rule — in  short,  a  good 
harvest  is  a  miracle,  for  which  we  must  thank  the 
mercy  of  God." 


CASTING  A   HOROSCOPE  193 

"Suppose  that  miracle  did  not  happen  this  year? 
What  would  be  the  consequence,  Mr.  Nagle?" 

"God  forbid,  madam.  The  consequence  would  be 
too  awful  for  human  language  to  describe." 

"You,  Edmund,  with  your  vivid  imagination, 
could  at  least  picture  it  in  outline.  Would  it  not  be 
famine,  wide  as  the  land,  deep  as  the  depth  of  those 
numbers  living  from  hand  to  mouth?  I  had  some 
trial  of  it  in  the  year  past,  among  these  woods  and 
lawns  of  Eden.  To  you  stay-at-home  Irishmen  it 
is  familiar  as  your  changeable  sky;  a  matter  of 
course.  Not  so  to  me.  I  have  lain  awake,  night 
after  night,  in  fancy  traveling  over  the  land  smitten 
with  the  plague — its  crops  lying  in  pestilential  heaps, 
the  people  dying  above  them ;  fathers,  mothers,  chil- 
dren ghastly  in  their  nakedness — the  country  a 
stricken  battle-field,  its  dead  unburied.  The  dream 
— or  is  it  real? — will  not  leave  me.  I  walk  in  it 
even  as  I  say  these  words  to  you.  Tell  me,  in  God's 
name,  you  men,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"An  exaggerated  and  improbable  supposition,  I 
trust,"  answered  Mr.  Nagle,  with  his  not  unkindly 
smile.  "It  is  against  the  calculus  of  chances — is  it. 
not,  Mr.  Liscarroll  ?  Two  failures  in  succession  we 
may  conceive,  but  not  three." 

"The  moment  I  look  into  that  cloud  we  call  the 
future,"  replied  Edmund,  "I  dread,  as  you  do,  what 

13 


194  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

it  may  bring,  Miss  Lisaveta.  Our  people  have  staked 
all  on  a  gambling  crop;  chance  is  no  god  I  would 
trust.  More — as  Mr.  Nagle  says — the  land,  the 
plants,  the  handling  are  equally  bad.  And  the  most 
of  our  tenants  have  nothing  to  fall  back  upon  but  the 
mealmen — God  help  them !" 

"Nothing  to  be  done — nothing  to  be  done,"  mur- 
mured Lisaveta,  rising  and  walking  about  the  room 
in  strong  agitation.  "We  landlords  can  take  our 
pound  of  flesh,  with  the  blood  in  it,  no  Portia  to 
say  us  nay ;  you  poets  can  improvise  a  keen  along  the 
mountain  roads,  as  you  follow  the  coffin  to  its  last 
home.  Would  there  even  be  coffins  for  the  people  ?" 
she  cried  suddenly,  so  that  the  agent  turned  pale, 
and  Edmund  looked  at  her  in  wonder  not  unmixed 
with  fear.  His  quick  thoughts  had  leaped  with  hers 
to  the  horrible  consummation.  He  saw  the  Famine 
slaying  its  thousands  on  a  heap,  with  fierce  delight, 
and  thousands  more  tumbling  before  it.  "Your  eyes 
pierce  the  cloud,"  he  whispered,  in  a  voice  unlike  his 
own,  to  the  girl.  She  answered  emphatically: 

"My  mother  had  strange  notions.  I  was  taught 
by  her  that  I  never  could  do  anything  as  I  ought 
until  I  saw  it  in  visible  shape  before  my  mind's  eye. 
The  habit  is  formed  in  me;  you  will  not  think  it 
hallucination;  it  is  your  own  gift  when  you  choose 
to  exercise  it.  Set  these  millions  in  their  wasted 


CASTING  A  HOROSCOPE  195 

fields,  and  say  what  do  you  see?  That  is  the  thing 
they  will  do,  that  will  be  done  to  them,  in  the  day  of 
their  hunger.  They  will  feed  upon  nettles  and 
weeds;  the  mist  of  fever  will  rise  about  them;  they 
will  creep  into  the  ditches  and  die  there,  by  the 
visitation  of  God  upon  the  crime  and  folly  of  man. 
Such  a  white  death  is  my  dream,  which  this  very 
autumn  may  crown  king  of  our  millions — our 
millions !  I  see  him  coming  up  from  the  South,  pass- 
ing the  rivers;  neither  stop  nor  stay  does  he  make 
on  the  mountain-crest;  he  is  lord  of  the  Golden 
Vale,  and  away  with  him  over  plain  and  pasture  until 
he  reaches  the  Northern  Sea.  It  will  be  the  famine 
of  the  century." 

"An  excellent  crop,"  murmured  Mr.  Nagle,  "the 
calculus  of  probabilities !  By  Christmas — " 

"The  crowded  mountain-sides  may  be  a  ceme- 
tery," said  Miss  O'Connor. 

"Or  you  may  be  laughing  at  your  own  gloomy 
presentiments,"  said  he. 

"Why  do  the  Irish  gentry  fulfil  no  part  of  their 
contract?"  she  insisted. 

"It  is  not  they  but  the  farmers  themselves  that 
drag  the  life  and  soul  out  of  the  ground,  as  well  as 
stocking  it  with  a  loose  population,  till  it  is  no  better 
than  a  snipe-bog,"  said  the  agent,  severely. 

"Can  they  help  it  if  their  boys  and  girls  marry  at 


196  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

seventeen?"  threw  in  Liscarroll;  "what  else  is  a  man 
to  do  with  his  lads  but  divide  the  holding  among 
them?" 

"No  coercive  enactment  is  palatable  to  those  peo- 
ple," answered  Mr.  Nagle,  almost  showing  signs  of 
temper.  "They  will  neither  be  said  nor  led  by  their 
superiors.  They  murder  the  good  soil ;  they  lament 
here  that  we  don't  permit  them  to  appropriate  the 
sea-rack  and  burn  up  the  fine  land  with  it." 

"You  know  they  call  it  the  'running  weed  that 
God  sends  in  to  them';  why  should  it  be  mine  in- 
stead of  theirs?"  cried  Lisaveta.  "I  declare  to  you, 
Mr.  Nagle,  when  those  boys  clifted  the  cows  over 
the  rocks  at  Glenmasson,  cruel  as  I  thought  them, 
I  felt  they  did  it  more  from  exasperation  than 
villainy." 

"For  God's  sake,  madam,  keep  that  opinion  to 
yourself,"  said  the  agent,  alarmed,  "or  we  will  be 
having  the  revels  of  the  Rockites  as  they  had  in 
Tipperary.  Don't  you  see  them  now  pulling  the 
heath  for  sale,  and  'stealing  mountain,'  so  they  term 
it,  by  the  furlong?  And  there  's  the  bog-stuff  they 
use  for  manure,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pernicious  sea- 
sand,  the  burning  itself  of  the  soil,  and — " 

"But  I  see  here,"  interrupted  Lisaveta,  "that  we  do 
what  Cathal  O'Dwyer  charged  upon  us  landlords  in 
my  hearing,  and  I  would  not  believe  it.  We  set  the 


CASTING  A   HOROSCOPE  197 

wild,  sunken  rocks  in  with  the  land,  to  get  a  rent 
from  them." 

"Land  is  land,  whether  at  sea  or  on  shore,"  an- 
swered the  agent ;  "  'he  owns  all  at  low  tide  and  at 
flood,'  says  their  own  proverb  of  the  landlord.  If 
the  natural  indolence  of  our  farmers,  big  and  little, 
did  not  encourage  them  to  waste  five  good  months  of 
the  year,  it  is  long  since  they  would  be  independent 
of  a  thing  that  one  tide  brings  in  and  another  may 
carry  out." 

"Well,  but,  Mr.  Nagle,  as  we  should  not  be  trust- 
ing, like  our  rude  ancestors,  to  the  acorns  that  hang 
on  the  oak  and  the  wild  honey  in  crevices  of  the  trees, 
surely  you  can  tell  us  how  to  begin  our  improve- 
ments," said  Liscarroll,  taking  up  the  sketch-map. 
"Look  at  these  colors,"  he  went  on,  pointing  them 
out  to  Miss  O'Connor;  "much  of  your  estate  is  held 
in  rundale,  and  it  is  striped  like  the  coat  of  the  roving- 
Kern — a  plaid  would  n't  be  more  so." 

"Take  a  patch  of  it  from  any  one  of  them,"  re- 
joined Nagle,  "and  they  '11  get  demoralized,  and  sav- 
age, and  wild.  The  man  would  be  every  day  watch- 
ing it,  though  he  lost  it  twenty  years  back." 

"But  if  you  gave  him  as  good  a  patch  elsewhere?" 
said  Edmund. 

"He  will  not  be  satisfied  but  with  his  own. 
Double  the  quantity  would  n't  pacify  him.  Still,  I 


198  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

say  to  Miss  O'Connor,  in  this  way  we  will  have  to 
begin.  Improvement  and  ejectment — but  without 
violence  or  hardship — must  go  together.  Money 
will  be  demanded,  and  that  not  trifling." 

"I  have  the  money,"  said  Lisaveta;  "don't  let  that 
stand  in  our  way." 

"You  are  happy  to  say  it,"  returned  Edmund,  with 
a  certain  bitterness;  "at  Renmore  we  shall  improve 
when  we  are  rich — and  not  till  then.  Our  interests 
were  mortgaged,  encumbered — I  don't  know  what 
all — ages  ago." 

To  the  cautious  agent,  who  had  thoughts  of  a  pos- 
sible alliance  between  the  two  houses,  talk  of  this 
kind  appeared  no  less  youthful  than  ill-timed.  Miss 
O'Connor  was  wealthy  enough  to  choose  her  hus- 
band ;  the  Liscarrolls  dated  back  to  Richard  I,  and  it 
was  in  Mr.  Nagle's  blood,  as  in  that  of  every  genuine 
Irishman,  to  respect  a  family  which  had  struck  its 
roots  deep  in  the  soil.  Why  dilate  upon  mortgages 
and  encumbrances  ?  They  could  be  paid  off. 

"My  plan  would  be  this,"  he  said  aloud ;  "emigrate 
the  cottiers  that  have  no  hold  on  the  land.  It  will 
cost  a  few  pounds  a  head,  but  will  repay  you.  Get 
possession  of  the  small  broken  farms ;  square  them  to 
a  reasonable  shape;  plant  the  houses  convenient  but 
not  too  near  to  each  other;  let  six  acres  be  the  least 
size  of  a  farm,  or  maybe  seven,  so  that  a  man  will 


CASTING  A   HOROSCOPE  199 

have  enough  to  sustain  his  family  in  comfort.  But 
I  have  it  all  down  in  black  and  white  for  your  inspec- 
tion and  approbation,  Miss  O'Connor." 

"Emigrate,  eject,  clear  off  the  land — I  don't  fancy 
the  sound  of  it,"  said  Lisaveta;  "what  think  you, 
Edmund?" 

"I  should  n't  bless  the  hand  that  turned  me  out  on 
the  Atlantic,"  he  answered.  "By  the  crook  of  Saint 
Finbarr,  it  is  a  queer  country  altogether.  The  land- 
lords won't  live  in  it — the  tenants  can't.  Who  has 
bewitched  us?" 

"Thank  you  for  your  great  trouble,"  she  said  to 
the  agent,  as  he  began  to  arrange  his  papers ;  "leave 
these  for  me  to  think  over  them." 

"No  hurry  at  all,"  said  he ;  "till  harvest  we  can  stir 
not  a  step.  It  is  an  operation  will  be  spread  over 
several  years;  but  a  beginning  might  be  tried  upon 
the  most  impoverished  tenants  and  hangers-on  that 
now  disgrace  the  property.  I  would  not  advise  an 
immediate  or  exuberant  expenditure." 

Edmund,  in  his  half-serious,  half- jesting  way, 
turned  to  the  lady  of  Airgead  Ross.  "My  heart 
bleeds  for  these  paupers — they  are  the  old  Irish,  Fir- 
bolgs,  Fomorians,  Milesians — the  antique  world  of 
tale  and  song,  fighting  and  love-making;  but  if  they 
must  go,  I  declare  to  God  a  short,  sharp  famine 
would  be  my  choice  for  them." 


200  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

On  his  lips  the  young  man  had  a  doubtful  smile; 
but  his  voice  choked.  i 

"You  would  see  them  die  of  hunger  ?"  asked  Lis- 
aveta,  reproachfully. 

"I  am  taking  your  advice,  trying  to  follow  them 
across  the  ocean — into  cities  where  they  are  strangers 
— among  nations  of  the  modern  style.  They  scatter, 
sink,  fall,  forget  the  old  legends,  the  old  virtues. 
What  will  their  grandchildren  be  like?  Will  they 
keep  the  Celtic  heart  of  religion  and  poetry?  Who 
shall  dare  to  say?  Let  them  die  at  home  in  God's 
grace." 

"I  want  them  to  live,  not  to  die — our  kith  and 
kin,"  answered  Lisaveta,  running  up  and  kissing  the 
cold,  marble  cheek  of  Deirdre,  on  which  she  left 
the  sign  of  a  tear,  "my  own  people  and  yours,  Ed- 
mund !  How  shall  we  save  them?" 

"God  knows,"  he  said  mournfully;  "I  fear  we 
don't." 


CHAPTER  XV 
ST.  BRANDAN'S  KITCHEN 

A*  the  poet  was  riding  thoughtfully  home  that 
afternoon,  in  the  lengthening  shadows,  he  saw 
before  him  a  horseman  on  a  powerful  bay  horse 
which  went  slowly,  as  if  tired  out.  Coming  nearer, 
he  recognized  the  steed  and  its  rider,  whom  he  soon 
overtook.  "Why,  Will  Hapgood,"  he  exclaimed, 
drawing  rein,  your  animal  seems  no  better  than  a 
foundered  nag.  Have  you  been  racing  with  Fin- 
varra?" 

"He  's  gone  a  certain  number  of  miles,  over 
deuced  stony  roads,"  answered  Will,  rather  sullenly, 
"up  Killarney  way." 

"Come  in  and  put  up  at  the  castle,"  urged  Ed- 
mund ;  "you  will  never  get  to  Derryvore  at  that  rate. 
Come  and  dine  with  Phil.  We  have  not  seen  you 
for  a  dog's  age.  Give  your  horse  a  rest,  and  stay 
the  night." 

"Thanks,  I  '11  push  on.  Expected  at  home,  you 
know.  Promised — must  n't  disappoint.  We  shall 


202  .  THE  WIZARD'S  KNOT 

meet  at  Silverwood,  May  Day,  if  not  before.  Ta-ta. 
Regards  to  Phil." 

He  stumbled  along  hastily,  as  warned  by  the  fall- 
ing night;  but  it  was  a  good  while  ere  the  fagged 
hunter  vanished  among  the  hills.  Edmund  diverted 
his  thoughts  from  the  encounter  to  a  fancy  which 
had  ridden  all  the  way  with  him,  excited  by  Miss 
O'Connor's  prophecy  of  misfortune  to  the  harvest. 
Like  her,  but  in  a  different  key  of  imagination,  he 
possessed  a  creative  eye,  which  bodied  forth  the 
forms  of  things  unseen  by  his  neighbors.  And  now 
he  was  brooding  over  the  agent's  denunciation  of 
early  marriages,  the  doom  of  famine  which  might  be 
at  their  gates,  the  dispersion  of  his  beloved  people 
into  all  lands  across  the  "stammering  sea" — thus 
happily  named  by  a  Celtic  bard.  The  vision  dis- 
missed Will  Hapgood  lightly.  So  blind  are  we  at 
our  best ! 

But  he  thought,  "How  if  'Time  the  Shadow — 
Death  the  Skeleton,'  reaping  their  black  harvest  to- 
gether, came  upon  my  rosy  Cupid,  the  curly-headed, 
the  bold-faced,  flying  low  with  his  wings  all  sunny, 
through  the  bright  air,  his  golden  dart  almost  loos- 
ened from  the  string?  They  strike  him  to  the  mar- 
row with  rusty  iron  swords,  and  he  falls  like  a  bird 
that  has  been  shot-r-one  sudden  gleam  lighting  round 
him  where  he  tumbles  on  a  heap  of  dead.  His  eyes, 


ST.  BRANDAN'S  KITCHEN  203 

aflame,  laugh  indignantly  yet;  his  hand  grasps  the 
magic  bow ;  he  is  smiling  for  the  last,  last  time ;  but 
the  sky  is  one  cloud,  the  earth  an  open  grave.  Sup- 
pose this  be  our  last  May  Day,  merry  and  glad,  but 
the  crimson  heaven  descending  upon  it,  I  would  write 
'Love's  Farewell  to  Erinn' — a  keen  over  the  mur- 
dered god.  Should  it  not  be  in  the  measure  of  Mac- 
Liag's  'Lament  at  Kincora'?" 

Thus  he,  with  a  poet's  second  sight — for  it  came 
to  pass  even  as  the  vision  foreboded ;  the  last  days  of 
that  Ireland,  careless,  jovial,  amorous,  with  all  its 
high  spirit,  were  running  into  the  lees;  it  was  an 
hour  of  sunset,  bloody  as  though  some  battle  of  gods 
and  giants  were  fought  on  the  ramparts  of  heaven. 
The  young  Irish  Cupid  had  not  long  to  live ;  he  must 
make  haste  with  the  dance,  the  melody,  the  symbolic 
play  bequeathed  from  of  old,  when  the  land  decked 
herself  as  a  bride  for  La  Lughnasadh,  the  wedding- 
day  of  a  nation  that  took  its  pleasure  in  love  and  war. 
Henceforth  his  fires  would  be  quenched,  his  shining 
arrows  broken;  young  men  and  maidens  would  flee 
their  native  land  in  despair,  or  die  at  home  un- 
wedded.  The  mighty  Famine  was  now  to  claim 
Erinn  as  his  bride. 

While  this  general  sorrow  hung  almost  visible 
in  the  air,  long  foreseen  by  the  wise,  heralded  in 
more  than  one  famine  to  little  purpose,  misfortune 


204  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

of  another  kind  was  menacing  the  House  of  Ren- 
more.  Its  evil  genius  had  been  cast  out  to  Airgead 
Ross;  and  the  reader  feels  certain  that  when  Will 
Hapgood  talked  of  having  ridden  "Killarney  way" 
he  was  lying.  Early  in  the  morning  he  had  set  out 
on  a  roundabout  journey;  before  noon  he  was  face  to 
face  with  Lady  Liscarroll  in  the  woods  that  came 
down  to  a  wild  seashore,  marked  by  St.  Brandan's 
Kitchen,  a  ruin  of  great  age  and  medieval  masonry, 
said  to  be  infested  by  demons ;  a  terror  to  landsman 
as  well  as  seaman,  who  left  it  to  the  unearthly  tenants 
no  power  could  evict. 

Will's  horse  was  tethered  to  a  broken  pillar,  and 
the  young  man,  palpitating  as  if  he  had  ridden  a 
steeplechase,  entered  the  inclosure  which  long  weeds 
and  grasses  made  almost  inaccessible.  Tearing  them 
aside,  he  pushed  on  to  where  a  small  window  gave 
light,  and  a  woman,  veiled  and  cloaked,  came  for- 
ward to  meet  him.  Their  hands  touched.  In  his 
the  fever  of  a  terrible  infatuation  might  be  felt. 
The  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead. 

"We  are  both  mad  to  be  meeting  here,"  said  Lady 
Liscarroll.  "I  shall  be  missed  at  the  house.  And 
you?" 

"Never  mind  me,"  answered  the  Wild  Huntsman; 
"I  had  to  see  you  once,  to  make  sure  you  were  not 
a  prisoner  still.  That  awful  night!  The  crash  of 


ST.  BRANDAN'S   KITCHEN  205 

the  Gray  Tower !  We  heard  it ;  we  saw  the  battle- 
ments falling  in — the  moon  standing  over  them. 
Were  you  dead  or  alive  we  did  not  know.  Pity  me 
— I  had  to  bear  that  doubt — how  long?  An  eter- 
nity, I  thought." 

"Better  had  the  night  finished  me,"  she  said. 
"But  no,  I  am  thankless  to  you.  And  was  I  not 
anxious?  In  an  open  boat — the  sea  raging — had 
you  gone  down,  I  should  have  been  your  murderess." 

"No,  no,"  he  replied,  almost  gaily.  "Who  could 
blame  you?  The  adventure  was  mine,  only  mine. 
But  you  should  have  sent  me  an  answer  to  my  letters 
by  O'Sullivan.  I  had  to  act  in  the  dark." 

"I  put  no  trust  in  him,"  was  her  answer;  "he  is 
devoted  to  Sir  Philip,  and  has  always  made  mis- 
chief. But  let  us  move  into  the  open;  this  place 
stifles  me." 

They  traversed  the  wet  grass,  and  halted  out- 
side, under  the  shadow  of  a  high  sandstone  rock 
from  which  the  waters  of  the  bay  were  seen 
glistening. 

"Did  n't  you  run  a  frightful  risk — on  that  lee 
shore — in  such  a  wind?"  began  Lady  Liscarroll  the 
second  time. 

"Felim  O'Riordan  knows  every  inch  of  it.  We 
had  our  hands  full,  no  doubt.  However,  you  would 
have  been  safe,"  he  rejoined,  with  a  fierce  touch  of 


2o6  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

disappointment.  "What  kept  you  back?  Not 
cowardice,  I  know." 

"That  girl  Joan  threatened  us  with  Philip." 

"What  do  I  care  for  Philip?"  he  was  bursting  out. 
"I  beg  your  pardon.  He  is  your  son;  but  why 
did  n't  he  take  your  part  against  the  world  ?" 

She  eyed  the  curious  young  squire  with  curiosity. 
"I  shall  manage  Philip,"  said  she;  "that  is  my  reason 
for  staying  with  Miss  O'Connor.  Don't  cross  my 
plans,  Mr.  Hapgood.  I  want  you  to  know  them. 
But  first  tell  me  what  put  you  on  that  chivalrous 
notion  of  a  rescue?" 

He  could  not  unravel  the  character  of  the  woman ; 
was  she  playing  with  him,  the  hook  in  his  gills,  as 
he  would  have  played  with  a  salmon  out  in  the  bay  ? 
No  matter,  the  perplexity  threw  more  sparks  into 
his  passion. 

"What  I  intended  you  can  read  in  my  face,"  he 
answered  hotly.  "Of  course  you  hardly  remember 
a  lad  you  were  once  kind  to ;  he  had  got  into  a  scrape 
at  home,  ran  away  to  Renmore,  to  Nora  O' Sullivan, 
would  n't  go  back;  talked  of  throwing  himself  into 
the  creek  sooner;  you  heard  him  sobbing,  the  little 
fool,  and — yes,  you  forget!  I  don't." 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  the  lady ;  "that  lad  looked  so 
desperate — it  became  him  very  well,"  she  continued, 
with  a  smile;  "I  was  not  too  happy  myself.  We 


ST.  BRANDAN'S   KITCHEN  207 

kept  you  the  night — made  you  sleep  in  Phil's  room 
— next  day  got  your  mother  to  send  her  forgiveness. 
A  small  thing  to  be  remembered !" 

"I  would  have  done  something  to  myself  but  for 
you,"  he  said ;  "always  was  a  hot  blood.  And  you 
spoke — there  was  that  in  your  voice — like  no  one 
I  ever  heard.  Oh,  how  sorry  I  felt  when  the  country 
talked,  after  you — " 

"After  I  took  to  flying  with  the  wild  geese — that 
was  O'Dwyer's  word  to  me,"  she  concluded,  slightly 
blushing.  "I  see  the  rest.  You  could  n't  bear  the 
thought  of  me  in  that  horrible  Gray  Tower — the 
O'Sullivans  were  at  your  beck  and  call — you  wrote, 
you  waited — " 

"Every  night  for  over  a  week  I  was  prowling 
about  the  rocks,  expecting  a  signal.  I  had  got  the 
tower  door  to  open,  put  up  a  long  ladder ;  even  tried 
the  panel  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  But  you  gave  no 
sign;  at  last,  I  had  to  venture.  How  could  you 
refuse  ?" 

"My  dear  Will,"  she  answered,  giving  him  the 
frankest  of  smiles,  "now  I  know  all  this,  my  heart  re- 
joices that  I  did  hold  back.  I  have  enough  on  my 
conscience.  Why  destroy  every  one  who  comes  near 
me  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  what  my  life  has  been  ?"  Her 
voice  sank. 

"Not  to  me,"  he  said,  his  face  and  eyes  one  glow ; 


208  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"to  me  that  is  nothing.  Don't  turn  those  pages — 
tear  them  out.  I  ask  are  you  free  ?  you  stay  at  Air- 
gead  Ross  willingly?  Otherwise,  come.  I  will 
put  you  on  my  horse,  and  take  you  wherever  you 
choose.  Say  the  word.  There  is  the  sea  and  lib- 
erty," pointing  before  him. 

"All  I  wanted  was  a  friend ;  now  I  have  one,"  she 
replied,  darting  a  ray  of  sunshine  into  Will's  brain. 
"Yes,  I  am  as  free  as  I  can  ever  be  in  this  detestable 
country.  Take  my  thought  in  a  sentence — Miss 
O'Connor  must  marry  Sir  Philip.  In  that  way  I 
make  up  to  him  for  the  past." 

Will's  countenance  fell.  What  signified  to  them 
Sir  Philip  and  his  fortunes?  A  fire  such  as  now 
kindled  his  deepest  being  put  out  all  lesser  lights; 
besides,  he  hated  the  young  master  of  Renmore,  see- 
ing in  him  only  an  executioner. 

"They  say  Edmund  is  the  favorite,"  he  answered 
at  length,  sulkily. 

"Do  they  ?  All  the  more  reason  why  I  should  not 
leave  this  house.  Edmund,  indeed !  A  charity  brat, 
penniless  like  his  father — taken  up  by  Sir  Walter  to 
spite  me — one  that  always  behaved  as  if  I  were  worse 
than  a  stepmother  to  him.  No,  I  will  see  that  he 
does  n't  get  the  broad  acres  of  Silverwood." 

"Nor  the  purse  of  Miss  Lisaveta,"  said  Will,  en- 
tering into  her  humor. 


ST.  BRANDAN'S   KITCHEN  209 

"Not  a  farthing,  if  I  can  help  it,"  she  rejoined, 
vehemently.  "Now  I  will  never  ask  a  quick-tem- 
pered boy  like  you  to  interfere,"  she  went  on,  partly 
to  provoke  him,  but  as  much  by  way  of  trying  how 
far  she  could  venture.  "However,  if  you  must 
quarrel,  let  it  be  with  Edmund." 

"Fight  him?  With  pleasure.  Shall  I  pick  a 
quarrel  with  him  at  once  ?" 

"La  you  now,  what  a  spitfire !"  she  said,  laughing. 
"Wait  a  bit.  He  is  in  requisition  for  May  Day." 

"Well,  after  May  Day,"  replied  Will,  seriously. 
And  then  the  lady  took  him  by  the  arm.  "I  was 
only  joking,"  she  said,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
eyes.  "Duels  have  gone  out  of  fashion.  But  Phil, 
not  Edmund,  is  to  get  the  great  heiress;  if  you,  or 
anybody,  can  put  a  spoke  in  my  nephew's  wheel,  I 
sha'n't  break  my  heart." 

"It  is  always  the  simplest  to  fight  a  man,"  argued 
her  cavalier.  "I  'm  not  much  good  at  anything  else." 

"In  this  case,  I  forbid  fighting,"  said  Lady  Lis- 
carroll.  "But  you  must  leave  me  now.  I  reckon 
you  my  champion  always — that  night  of  storm  you 
went  through  death  for  me.  Will  you  wear  this  ?" 

It  was  a  long  thin  chain  of  Indian  gold, — such  as 
men  attached  to  their  watches  and  wore  about  their 
necks  half  a  century  ago,  finely  wrought  and  of  some 
value.  Will  took  it — then  hesitated. 

14 


210  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"Had  I  any  other  trinket,  I  would  offer  you  that, 
but  I  am  a  pauper,"  she  said  bitterly.  "Nay,  you 
shall  not  give  it  back.  Some  one — it  matters  not  who 
— left  it  with  me.  He  is  dead.  I  make  you  his 
heir." 

Will  Hapgood  was  startled.  He  wondered  if  she 
meant  the  English  soldier — Henry  Lifford — whose 
name  was  darkly  associated  with  hers  in  a  story  often 
told  but  never  cleared  up  to  his  satisfaction.  The 
chain  had  perhaps  been  his;  and  he  was  a  suicide, 
the  whisper  went.  Impossible  to  thrust  it  into  the 
lady's  hand  again.  But  he  wished  the  token  had 
been  something  else. 

With  a  sad  feeling  he  put  it  to  his  lips  and  hid  it 
within  his  breast  pocket.  Then  he  pulled  himself 
together  valiantly.  "We  are  not  to  allow  this  mar- 
riage between  Edmund  and  Miss  O'Connor,"  he  said 
at  parting. 

"It  must  never  take  place,"  she  answered  firmly. 

"Even  if  I  have  to  challenge  him,"  rejoined 
Hapgood. 

"It  will  not  be  required,"  was  her  answer. 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Will,  and  he  rode  away. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   LAST    MAY   DAY 

ON  May  Eve  there  was  a  fall  of  clouds  at  sunset, 
threatening  wind  and  rain  over  the  glens,  the 
green  lawns,  and  the  high  barren  hills  about  Airgead 
Ross.  The  sky  was  checkered  with  many  doubtful 
lights,  peering  between  banks  of  storm  and  the  scud- 
ding rack.  And  more  than  one  said  to  Cathal 
O'Dwyer,  setting  out  that  way  late,  "We  '11  have 
Kerry  rain  for  our  drink  to-morrow.  What  will 
you  do  thin,  Cathal  ?  Your  great  festival  will  be  the 
haven  roaring,  and  the  flood  under  and  over  you." 

"Bate  no  hound  without  his  fault,"  answered  the 
wizard,  confidently,  "nor  be  putting  your  skian  into 
the  hollow  of  your  own  side.  That  wind  will  be 
met  by  a  second,  red  from  the  north,  and  more  fero- 
cious. 'T  is  not  rain  I  'm  in  dread  of,  but  last 
year's  blight  on  the  crops,  should  it  return.  And 
God  forbid!" 

"God  forbid,  indeed,"  said  Garret  O'Riordan,  who 
was  within  earshot.  "  'T  would  be  the  most  unfor- 
tunate thing  ever  happened  to  us." 


211 


212  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"  'T  would  sweep  up  the  whole  world's  valuables 
into  the  hands  of  the  malemen,  bad  cess  to  them," 
said  his  brother.  "But  anyhow,  Cathal,  knock  a 
fine  May  Day  out  of  it  for  us,  and  't  is  unknownst 
what  '11  you  get." 

"Never  trust  me  if  I  don't ;  call  me  a  scoldg  to  my 
face,  and  strike  me  with  sledge-hammers,"  he  re- 
plied, gripping  their  hands  heartily,  "if  I  'm  wanting 
in  power  when  ye  meet  me  on  the  meadow  at  Airgead 
Ross.  Merriment  shall  increase  in  ye  young  men, 
kindness  in  the  women  (God  knows  they  '11  be  the 
better  for  that  same),  audacity  in  the  hurlers  and 
jumpers,  and  grace,  vivacity,  and  spirit  in  every 
dancer  that  leaps  off  the  ground.  Good-night,  and 
joy  be  with  ye  all,"  he  concluded,  turning  his  face 
to  the  mountain  road. 

His  prophecy  came  true.  "The  shining  god  that 
made  heaven  with  its  clouds"  had  brought  up  one 
wind  to  chase  it  away  with  a  mightier,  headlong  from 
the  north.  May  Day  wore  a  bright  face,  dashed  at 
morning  with  cold  drops,  then  tranquil  and  sun- 
flushed.  Its  colors,  exceedingly  pure,  faded  out 
toward  the  ocean  in  a  tinge  of  melting  blue,  but  else- 
where displayed  the  spring  favors  of  an  intense  green 
and  blossoming  white;  for  in  these  sheltered  spots 
the  season  moved  happily  onward.  "A  goldsmith's 
fire"  up  in  the  sky  threw  off  its  yellow  sparks  all 


THE   LAST   MAY   DAY  213 

round,  playfully  scattered  on  the  laughing  waves  or 
shooting  down  through  the  branches  into  a  dimmer 
atmosphere. 

There  was  not  one  that  came  to  Airgead  Ross  that 
May  Day — and  hundreds  traveled  from  villages  far 
and  near — but  saw  the  place  with  Cathal  the  wizard's 
eyes.  He  had  made  a  cast  of  his  art ;  the  magic  held 
them.  Yet  perhaps  it  was  not  needed.  Singular 
indeed  was  the  spell  of  those  wide-branching,  airy 
woods,  their  little  white  rills  musically  plashing,  the 
ground  decked  with  ferns,  asphodels,  shyly  peeping, 
sweet-scented  flowers,  that  flung  on  the  breeze  a  balm 
of  paradise.  The  birds  were  not  silent,  but  their 
music  made  a  subdued  accompaniment  to  the  voices 
and  the  shouting,  to  the  laughter  of  young  girls,  and 
the  high-pitched  tones  of  Kerry,  clear  as  a  thrush's 
call.  And  the  softly  undulating  fringe  of  purple  sea 
ran  round  these  woodland  recesses,  or  became  dis- 
cernible unexpectedly  in  their  depths,  giving  to  the 
landscape  a  strange  aerial  brightness,  as  though  be- 
held in  a  dream. 

"This  is  the  land  of  youth,  the  country  under  the 
waves,"  said  Edmund  to  Lisaveta,  where  they  stood 
on  the  green  mound,  conspicuous  by  its  May  bush, 
the  hawthorn  in  blossom,  round  which  the  dancers 
were  to  move  before  long.  "Do  you  know  that  ex- 
cept in  Ireland  there  never  was  a  true  Fairy  Queen  ? 


2i4  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

The  poets  have  lied  about  it  charmingly,  but  so  it  is. 
To-day  will  you  choose  to  be  Queen  Mab  or  Queen 
Aine,  or  Cliona  of  Glandor?  I  believe  the  O'Con- 
nors are  related  to  the  Good  People." 

"  'T  is  a  clear  pedigree,  extant  yet  for  constant  rec- 
itation," said  Cathal,  overhearing  the  remark  as  he 
bustled  past.  "I  could  give  three  parts  of  it  now, 
was  not  Lucifer  at  my  heels  in  the  shape  of  fiddlers 
and  dancers  approaching.  Your  pardon,  madam." 
With  a  bow  and  a  flourish  he  was  off. 

"Our  Druid  is  like  the  magpie,"  said  Edmund, 
looking  after  O'Dwyer,  "one  half  of  him  is  white, 
the  other  half  black.  Full  of  wisdom,  not  empty  of 
liquor ;  to  use  his  own  words,  'at  times,  your  honor, 
greatly  bibulous.'  He  cuts  deep  with  his  tongue,  I 
am  afraid.  He  is  too  fond  of  satire,  but  the  days 
of  Aitherne  are  past.  He  will  pay  for  his  'jocose 
banterings  and  imprecations' — that  is  Dr.  Driscoll's 
word — sooner  than  he  thinks.  As  I  came  along  this 
morning  I  met  the  doctor." 

"His  very  sight  sickens  me,"  interrupted  Lis- 
aveta.  "I  never  could,  as  the  people  say  here,  cotton 
to  him." 

"You  are  not  the  only  one.  But,  however,  he 
shouted  to  me  across  the  gap  that  yesterday  Mr. 
Davy  Roche,  the  butterman  from  Cork — " 

"With  his  coat  buttoned  behind  him,"  exclaimed 


THE   LAST   MAY   DAY  215 

Cathal,  emerging  on  them  of  a  sudden  round  the 
other  side  of  the  hill.  "Mr.  Edmund,  a  thousand 
pardons,  but  I  caught  the  name  that  sticks  in  my 
gizzard  always.  Don't  mention  it  this  day,  for  your 
mother's  soul!  Favete  linguis!  To  that  land- 
sucker — a  man  better  endowed  with  miserliness  you 
never  clapped  eyes  on — I  make  a  present  of  every 
curse  I  have  to  spare  from  the  rest  of  his  family. 
May  he  live  to  want  tin  times  every  pound  he  never 
spent  nor  squandered !" 

With  a  grim  smile  he  went  down  to  the  meadow, 
now  fast  filling  as  the  bands  of  country-folk,  their 
fiddlers  playing  before  them,  came  out  from  the 
glens,  or  up  from  the  thickset  hovels  along  the  shore. 
Voices  swelled  in  a  confused,  not  unmusical  clamor 
above  the  shrill  violins,  which  seemed  to  march  upon 
the  wind  in  a  straggling  and  interrupted  procession. 
Stewards,  wearing  the  O'Connor  badge — a  seal  in 
silver  on  a  blue  ground — met  them  at  the  gates  of 
the  demesne,  marshaled  the  lads  by  themselves  in 
long  columns,  and  sent  the  lasses  on,  with  more 
laughing  and  joking,  to  their  own  side.  "In  a  few 
minutes/'  remarked  Edmund,  "these  lines  of  young 
men  and  maids  will  join  hands  in  the  great  snake- 
dance,  following  the  course  of  the  sun  from  east  to 
west.  It  is  well  he  is  shining  bright  to-day." 

"Who  leads  the  girls  off  ?"  inquired  Sir  Philip — he 


216  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

had  arrived  later  than  Edmund,  and  was  now  stand- 
ing by  his  mother's  side,  intent  on  the  scene,  his  eyes 
not  so  fatigued  as  usual. 

"Out  of  regard  for  Cathal  O'Dwyer,  who  is  mas- 
ter of  the  revels,  they  have  chosen  his  daughter 
Joan,"  answered  Edmund.  "There  she  is  with  the 
old  man.  Find  me  a  prettier  Irish  girl  among  them," 
he  continued,  turning  to  Lady  Liscarroll,  who  sat  a 
little  apart,  busy  with  her  memories  of  former  times. 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  "Voice,  step,, 
figure,  there  is  none  to  equal  Joan,"  was  her  candid 
reply.  "A  little  too  spirited,  perhaps.  She  is  lively 
as  a  bird  on  the  willow." 

"The  captain  of  the  lads  will  match  her  in  good 
looks,"  said  Lisaveta.  "Look  at  him,  Edmund,  with 
his  high  crest !  What  a  splendid  piece  of  a  boy !" 

"It  is  Felim  O'Riordan,"  answered  Philip,  hastily. 
"Is  he  to  dance  with  Joan?"  The  warmth  which 
ran  like  a  spark  along  these  words  might  have  drawn 
attention;  but  carriages  were  arriving,  with  ladies 
and  their  squires,  who  dismounted  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  May  bush  and  came  up  the  hill  on  foot. 
Among  them,  as  Lady  Liscarroll  anticipated,  were 
Will  Hapgood  and  his  tall  sister  Julia. 

Not  the  widow  of  Derryvore.  She  had  been 
asked,  but  frostily  declined;  had  her  authority 
equaled  her  remonstrances,  she  would  have  kept  the 


THE   LAST   MAY   DAY  217 

young  people  at  home.  But  it  was  labor  lost  arguing 
with  her  son,  and  Julia,  who  had  lately  taken  to  call- 
ing pretty  often  on  Nora  O'Sullivan  at  Renmore,  was 
resolved,  though  she  did  not  say  so,  to  get  one 
glimpse  of  Philip's  famous  mother,  the  witch  of  the 
gray  eyes.  As  well  put  a  spancel,  O'Dwyer  would 
say,  on  the  mallard  and  wild  duck,  as  on  young  crea- 
tures in  love. 

The  widow  was  left  lonely.  Julia  felt  the  sting 
of  a  suspicion  that  Sir  Philip's  frequent  absences 
from  home,  and  his  rides  to  Silverwood,  gave  Miss 
O'Connor  a  chance  which  she  might  take.  This  day 
would  throw  light  on  it  all.  Unhappy  Julia !  There 
is  a  touch  of  the  bitter  as  well  as  the  comic  when 
"Apollo  flies,  and  Daphne  holds  the  chase."  Could 
she  have  seen  Philip  as  he  uttered  his  angry  question 
about  the  lad  Felim,  what  a  blaze  might  have  struck 
into  her  eyes!  Only  Edmund  recalled  that  little 
incident — afterward. 

By  this  the  elderly  men  and  women  were  seated 
on  the  grass ;  the  musicians,  stationed  at  the  foot  of 
the  May  mound,  were  preparing  to  strike  up,  and  the 
youths  and  maidens  in  a  great  circle  had  taken 
hands,  according  to  the  immemorial  rules  of  the 
dance.  But  to  those  who  looked  on,  familiar  with 
old  stories,  the  sight,  however  gay  and  frolicsome, 
brought  melancholy  thoughts;  for  what  a  contrast 


2i8  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

between  the  ancient  splendor  of  prince  and  chieftain, 
Druid  and  Ollamh,  in  their  many-colored  plaids, 
their  crimson  and  saffron  and  purple,  their  fillets  of 
bronze,  and  torques  of  gold,  and  this  dark-vestured 
throng,  where  the  women's  blue  cloaks  and  white 
caps  gave  the  only  vivid  note,  all  else  lost  in  a  gen- 
eral grayness ! 

Edmund  could  have  been  sorry  that  they  called 
out  into  the  sun  a  spectacle  so  moving  and  so 
strangely  desolate.  The  music  with  which  the  dance 
opened,  mournful  in  its  curious  intensity,  added  to 
his  pain.  Nothing  there  was  altogether  beautiful 
except  the  sunlit  world  of  the  elements  and  that  spirit 
of  youth  which  sprang  to  love  and  joy.  Forebod- 
ings whispered  still,  "It  is  the  last  May  Day — the 
last!" 

But  the  fifes  and  the  fiddles  quickened  their  time ; 
the  great  serpent  wreathed  his  living  coils  round  the 
hill;  snatches  of  melody  rang  from  the  lips  of  the 
dancers;  a  universal  excitement  awoke,  seizing  on 
spectators,  actors,  gentle  and  simple,  to  Cathal's 
unbounded  delight,  where  he  stood  on  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  watching  them. 

"Dance,"  he  cried  aloud,  mimicking  the  steps, 
"dance  along,  follow  the  sun — 't  is  the  true  wizard's 
knot  I  have  bound  ye  in — every  youth  with  a  maid  in 
his  right  hand — the  dance  of  life  all  Ireland  should 


THE    LAST   MAY   DAY  219 

be  dancing  this  May  Day !  I  call  ye,  and  I  bind  ye, 
and  I  put  my  spell  upon  ye !  Here  now,  the  Skelligs 
this  very  morning  came  out  half-way  to  meet  the 
rocks  opposite  them;  the  sun  itself  is  dancing  over 
your  heads ;  to  it  and  take  the  life  into  your  blood  as 
ye  twist  and  turn.  The  true  wizard's  knot — the 
serpent  that  curls  round  into  himself,  following  the 
sun,  his  great  god.  Dance,  my  people,  dance !" 

His  incantations  were  partly  drowned  in  the  tu- 
multuous sounds  of  the  music,  and  died  out  in  a  long 
half-savage  scream.  Cathal  was  beside  himself — an 
Obi  man  intoxicated  with  the  charm  of  his  own  pow- 
er, caught  up  in  a  whirl  wind  with  the  hurrying  crowd, 
master  and  victim  of  a  magic  that  spread  its  influ- 
ence like  a  contagion.  The  lookers-on,  above  and 
below  the  hill,  sprang  to  their  feet,  took  hands,  be- 
gan, almost  without  knowing  what  they  did,  to  beat 
time  to  the  instruments,  and  were  soon  no  less  wild 
than  the  snake-dancers  themselves,  who  kept  up  their 
interminable  and  tortuous  rounds  as  if  the  day  could 
not  wear  them  out. 

When  O'Dwyer  saw  the  movement  beginning, 
he  sprang  toward  Edmund.  "Will  you  lead  off? 
You  and  Miss  O'Connor?"  he  said  in  mighty 
jubilation. 

The  young  man  pointed  to  Sir  Philip.  "Ask 
him,"  he  whispered.  But  the  baronet  waved  his 


220  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

hand  disdainfully.  With  eyes  and  heart  he  was 
chasing  Joan  through  the  intricate  waltz  which  went 
forward,  ever  turning  with  the  sun;  there  danced, 
unseen,  by  her  side,  his  ghost  or  phantom,  and  on 
the  May  mound  he  was  insensible  to  all  that  hap- 
pened. When,  however,  Edmund,  smiling  at  the 
fit  which  came  over  his  neighbors,  offered  Lisaveta 
the  hand  she  just  touched,  Philip  was  in  honor  bound 
to  do  no  less  by  Julia  Hapgood.  Irish  girls,  of 
every  rank,  dance  like  gipsies,  and  are  never  put  out 
by  a  little  wildness ;  they  were  soon  tripping  it  to  the 
lively  measure;  some  in  riding-habits  which  they 
managed  with  a  charming  grace;  and  the  May 
mound,  as  if  it  could  stand  still  no  longer,  seemed  to 
be  whirling  about  its  hawthorn-bush  in  a  paroxysm 
of  delight. 

Will  Hapgood  bowed  to  Lady  Liscarroll.  "A 
few  steps,  to  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the  thing!"  he 
said.  "Come — look  how  they  are  all  at  it.  You 
must  not  be  the  one  woman  sitting  still." 

"A  mad  pleasure,"  she  replied,  without  stirring, 
"but  it  is  not  for  me.  What  have  I  to  do  with  their 
May  Days — their  love-makings  and  wizard's  knots  ? 
Go,  Will,  ask  a  younger  woman — my  May  is  past." 

"Never  for  me,"  he  answered  in  a  tone  which  was 
scarcely  audible  with  passion.  "If  you  will  not 
dance,  my  post  is  here." 


THE   LAST   MAY   DAY  221 

But  Cathal  now  appeared,  triumphant  as  never 
bard  before.  "Your  ladyship  has  a  right  to  dance 
with  the  best  of  them,"  he  said,  bending  graciously 
low ;  "I  must  entreat  you.  Not  one  here  present  but 
't  is  their  duty  to  follow  the  course  of  that  sun,  the 
Bright-Faced,  who  commands  on  this  hill.  I  am 
now  putting  into  the  hands  of  ye  all  this  hank  of 
yarn,  to  bind  ye  more  surely  with  the  wizard's 
knot." 

He  seized  Edmund,  thrust  one  end  of  the  magic 
twine  between  his  fingers,  and,  running  with  the 
other,  in  no  long  while  had  brought  the  dancing 
circle  round  the  way  they  were  to  go,  until  every 
man  and  woman  there  held  the  chain.  Still,  the 
fifes  continued  their  ear-piercing  notes — in  an  occa- 
sional pause,  contrived  not  without  skill,  the  violins 
alone  were  heard,  sweet  and  plaintive,  to  be  abruptly 
lifted  on  a  deep  wave  of  sound  made  by  all  the  in- 
struments and  sent  back  from  the  hills  around  in 
echoing  volleys.  The  double  files  of  revelers  were 
now  intermingled ;  the  immense  serpent  of  the  mea- 
dow had  caught  in  its  spirals  the  dancers  on  the  hill ; 
partners  were  lost,  exchanged,  found  again;  the 
music  never  ceasing.  And  in  one  of  these  ceilings 
and  uncoilings,  where  all  seemed  confusion  but 
flowed  out  into  orderly  and  even  exquisite  arrange- 
ment, Philip  held  Joan  in  his  right  hand,  their  eyes 


222  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

meeting,  their  tongues  mute.  Neither  could  have 
spoken.  The  next  instant,  they  had  been  carried  in 
opposite  directions;  and  while  she  danced  back  to 
her  place,  the  young  man  broke  out  of  the  ranks, 
ascended  the  hill  with  a  swift,  unsteady  motion,  and 
sought  Lady  Liscarroll.  His  mother,  who  had 
moved  two  or  three  steps  in  the  knotted  dance  to 
please  Will  Hapgood,  was  seated  with  her  cavalier 
at  no  great  distance  from  her.  "You  are  tired, 
Phil,"  she  said  kindly;  "why  don't  you  manage 
your  strength?  You  forget  how  weak  you  have 
been." 

He  was  near  fainting,  and  threw  himself  at  full 
length  on  the  grass.  But  was  it  fatigue,  jealousy, 
or  the  wizard's  knot,  in  the  folds  of  which  he 
and  Joan  O'Dwyer  had  entangled  themselves?  For 
young  Hapgood  the  baronet  had  no  eyes;  he  was 
thinking  of  Felim  O'Riordan  and  a  remark  more 
than  once  dropped  in  his  hearing  since  the  dance 
began.  "What  a  purty  couple  they  'd  make !"  said 
the  people,  and  that  word  was  taken  up  by  their  bet- 
ters, in  admiration  of  Joan  and  the  fisher  lad  of  Ren- 
more.  It  struck  a  blow  on  Philip's  heart.  Were 
they  lovers?  According  to  the  strict  law  of  the 
dance,  lovers  they  ought  to  be.  But  no,  he  would 
not  have  it — the  thing  was  monstrous.  While  he 
lay,  breathing  heavily,  on  the  grass,  Philip  saw  what 


THE   LAST   MAY   DAY  223 

he  had  been  doing — not  at  all  so  clearly  what  he 
must  do. 

After  this  heralds  went  about,  shaking  their  iron 
chains  of  silence,  as  the  old  order  prescribed;  the 
snake-dance  melted  into  air  amid  rounds  of  applause, 
and  the  games  succeeded — all  the  sports  of  the 
country,  hurling,  leaping,  and  wrestling,  while  their 
late  partners  sat  and  looked  on  eagerly  at  the  rival 
champions. 

So  long  as  the  youths  contended  in  their  sight, 
Lisaveta  and  her  gay  little  court  sat  watching  them 
from  the  festal  mound.  Calling  up  the  wizard,  she 
gave  him  such  praise  as  made  his  old  eyes  water. 
"You  have  enchanted  us  all,"  she  said;  "sit  down 
now,  and  tell  me  the  names  of  those  young  men. 
Who  is  the  champion  wrestler  of  your  own  village  ?" 

"Ask  my  daughter  Joan  that,"  he  answered,  with  a 
twinkle  and  a  roguish  smile.  "Joan,  dear,  who  was 
it  danced  the  sun-dance  with  you?  Miss  O'Connor 
would  like  to  know." 

The  girl,  who  had  been  seated  on  the  grass  at  Lady 
Liscarroll's  feet,  in  a  dreamy  silence,  looked  toward 
her  father,  blushed  prettily,  and  with  some  hesitation 
replied,  "Did  n't  the  whole  world  see  it  was  Felim 
O'Riordan?" 

"He  dances  like  the  roebuck,"  said  Cathal,  "and 
I  'd  be  surprised  if  there  's  one  wrestles  with  half 


224  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

his  strength  and  agility  from  this  to  Tralee.  Look 
now  at  the  way  he  is  lepping,  and  God  bless  you." 

"Is  he  a  great  friend  of  yours,  Joan?"  inquired 
Lisaveta,  bending  down  to  lay  an  affectionate  hand 
on  her  shoulder  and  speaking  low.  Philip  was  near 
enough  to  catch  the  words ;  his  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still  before  Joan  gave  a  reply.  Tell-tale,  it  might 
be  fancied,  was  the  flush  of  color  that  dyed  her  brow ; 
but  in  these  ambiguous  tokens  there  is  often  a  re- 
serve, and  no  girl  could  be  more  delicately  shy  than 
the  wizard's  daughter. 

"It  was  the  mother  of  Felim  and  Garret  reared 
me,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  pensive  undertone.  "The 
two  boys  were  always  good  to  me ;  why  would  n't  I 
be  as  good  to  them?"  An  answer  which  sounded 
in  Philip's  ears  worse  than  none  at  all. 

"Your  Felim  has  a  brave  look  and  a  fine  manly 
figure,"  said  Lisaveta.  "I  see  no  one  to  match  him 
among  our  boys.  Happy  is  the  woman  that  will 
get  him." 

"You  may  say  that,  ma'am,"  cried  O'Dwyer; 
"there  is  n't  a  girl  in  Renmore  but  was  out  before 
sunrise  this  morning  to  gather  herbs  for  love- 
charms,  and  many  a  one  will  be  putting  her  spell 
on  Felim." 

"I  '11  engage  you  know  a  charm  as  strong  again," 
said  Lisaveta,  exchanging  a  merry  glance  with  the 


THE    LAST   MAY   DAY  225 

old  jester,  whose  eye  had  been  fixed  tenderly  on 
Joan. 

"Maybe  I  do,  and  maybe  I  don't,"  he  said  eva- 
sively, warned  by  the  girl's  growing  confusion ;  "any- 
how, Felim  must  try  a  fall  this  day  with  that  big 
giant,  Darby  Fitzmaurice  from  Glenmasson;  't  will 
be  luck  enough  for  him  to  bring  the  tall  fellow 
under." 

During  this  talk  Hapgood  was  saying  in  Lady 
Liscarroll's  ear,  "The  fisher  lad  and  his  brother  came 
with  me  that  night.  They  will  never  let  on — perfect 
gentlemen,  you.may  be  sure." 

"He  is  remarkably  handsome,"  she  answered,  a 
little  wearily.  "Joan  has  had  the  pick  of  them. 
But  she  deserves  a  husband  as  rare  as  herself." 

The  day  went  forward  without  mishap;  between 
every  bout  of  the  games,  music  played  and  sober 
drink  was  handed  round;  for  the  great,  the  extra- 
ordinary movement  of  temperance  had  banished 
from  public  gatherings  the  old  fire-water,  yet  their 
liveliness  was  more  than  it  had  ever  been.  All  the 
matches  led  up  by  consent  to  the  struggle  for  the 
champion's  silver-studded  belt  between  Glenmasson 
and  Renmore.  Felim  had  beaten  every  competitor 
on  his  own  side,  Darby  the  giant  on  his;  they  were 
now  to  be  pitted  against  each  other  in  a  ring  formed 
by  the  crowd,  under  a  transparent  but  mild  sun- 
is 


226  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

shine.  "You  want  O'Riordan  to  win?"  said  Philip, 
in  a  husky,  quarrelsome  voice  to  Joan  O'Dwyer, 
who  heard  and  saw  him  with  astonishment.  The 
master  was  a  different  man  from  her  friend  in  the 
gloomy  old  castle — fierce  and  almost  rude. 

"I  'd  be  the  strange  girl  if  I  desired  harm  to  my 
foster-brother,"  she  answered,  throwing  back  her 
head  proudly.  Philip  gnawed  his*  under  lip,  and 
drew  away  in  silence.  He  could  have  seen  the  fisher 
lad  flung  over  the  nearest  crags  with  pleasure.  It 
was  insane  to  be  so  moved ;  but  the  demon  had  got  on 
his  back  and  was  now  driving  him  at  the  whirl- 
wind's pace  gleefully. 

Had  O'Dwyer  suspected  the  meaning  of  those 
glowering,  half-maddened  looks  with  which  Sir 
Philip  scrutinized  the  ups  and  downs  of  a  match 
long  memorable  in  the  neighborhood,  he  would  have 
been  at  no  loss  to  explain  what  followed.  An  eye 
so  charged  with  jealousy  could  not  but  overlook  the 
innocent  Felim,  as  he  stripped  to  his  shirt-sleeves 
and  put  on  the  leather  belt  which  was  then  used  in 
wrestling.  It  was  not  Darby  Fitzmaurice  he  need 
fear.  The  giant,  though  taller  by  a  head  than  young 
O'Riordan,  had  neither  his  muscle,  swelling  bravely 
on  the  huge  brown  arm,  nor  his  suppleness  and  quick 
turns  when  borne  backward.  In  the  swaying  hither 
and  thither,  the  rushing  to  this  side  and  that,  which 


THE   LAST   MAY   DAY  227 

every  glance  pursued  with  breathless  emotion,  the 
Renmore  champion  was  seen  to  advantage,  and  his 
fine  play  met  with  cheers  from  Darby's  own  people. 
But  Philip  kept  a  murderous  feeling  of  envy  which 
he  hated,  yet  could  not  throw  off.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  staked  on  this  paltry  wrestling  match 
between  two  peasants  his  life,  his  fortune,  good  or 
evil.  O'Riord*i  must  lose.  Why?  Superstition 
reads  in  the  meanest  omens  what  concerns  itself, 
choosing  them  with  a  fatal  folly.  The  young  man 
fixed  on  this — and  saw  the  wheel  turn  as  at  a  gam- 
bling-table. 

Not  without  incidents,  dramatic  and  heart-stirring, 
did  the  match  proceed.  The  victor  was  to  give  his 
opponent  three  falls.  Once  O'Riordan  had  been 
thrown,  or  so  the  judges  decided,  though  he  was  up 
before  he  had  fairly  touched  the  grass.  Nerving 
himself  for  a  tremendous  effort,  but  with  a  smile  on 
his  lips,  the  lad  now  took  Fitzmaurice  round  the 
waist,  made  an  admirable  feint,  and  lifting  him  with 
easy,  bird-like  motion,  stretched  him  his  full  length 
before  them  all.  "What  a  grace  and  lightness !"  cried 
Miss  O'Connor  to  Julia  Hapgood.  "It  is  not  mere 
weight — I  could  fancy  the  lad  riding  on  a  great  wave 
and  curbing  it." 

Julia  was  remarking  Philip's  continued  absorption 
in  his  own  thoughts,  and  made  no  answer. 


228  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"By  Heaven,  he  is  down !"  exclaimed  the  baronet, 
leaping  to  the  front.  "That  is  two  falls  in  Darby's 
favor." 

No,  he  was  not  down.  Quick  as  an  eel,  O'Riordan 
had  twisted  round,  got  the  purchase  he  was  looking 
for,  and  sent  his  man  with  a  mighty  shock  to  earth. 
Immense  shouting  seemed  to  declare  the  contest 
over.  "Darby  is  killed;  he  '11  never  rise  again," 
cried  a  score  of  voices;  now  it  was  Joan's  turn  to 
exult,  to  peer  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  to  hope 
Felim  had  made  sure  of  the  silver-studded  belt. 
Again  expectation  underwent  defeat.  The  burly 
giant  shook  himself  loose  of  friend  and  second, 
wiped  the  cloud  from  his  eyes,  and  grappled  with 
Felim  as  a  man  seizes  on  a  plank  in  shipwreck.  All 
sounds  died,  so  fierce  did  the  struggle  appear,  so 
deadly  were  the  looks  of  the  combatants.  O'Riordan 
smiled  no  more;  Fitzmaurice  had  the  air  of  a  wild 
cat  o'  the  mountain,  its  claws  in  a  living  body.  To 
and  fro  they  struggled,  almost  touching  the  ground 
in  quick  succession,  breathless  both,  hardly  aware 
that  the  sun  was  over  their  heads.  This  could  not 
last.  A  few  minutes  palpitating  with  the  interest, 
the  horror,  which  now  transformed  play  to  a  battle 
for  life,  and  they  fell  together.  The  ring  was  in- 
vaded immediately.  After  a  short  pause,  the  Glen- 
masson  warrior  sprang  to  his  feet.  But  his  antag- 


THE   LAST   MAY  DAY  229 

onist  did  not  rise  or  move.  "O'Riordan  is  dead!" 
shrieked  the  crowd;  and  Joan  fainted  in  Lisaveta's 
arms. 

Imagine  the  hurly-burly — Sir  Philip,  ashamed  of 
his  late  cruel  thoughts,  broke  in  to  where  Felim  lay 
prostrate,  thundered  to  the  people  that  they  must 
give  way,  and,  with  Edmund's  assistance,  was  lift- 
ing the  unhappy  lad,  when  Dr.  Driscoll,  who  had 
joined  them  on  the  mound  not  long  before,  took  the 
matter  into  his  own  hands.  He  knelt  and  examined 
the  body. 

"Is  he  dead,  doctor?"  inquired  a  hundred  voices, 
while  Fitzmaurice  was  led  away  by  his  triumphant 
villagers  to  a  neighboring  tent.  "Surely  the  bua- 
chaleen  is  killed." 

"He  is  not  killed,"  answered  Driscoll,  savagely,  in 
a  voice  that  drowned  all  others,  "but  his  collar-bone 
is  broke.  Bring  me  water,  and  don't  be  staring  at 
me  like  a  flock  of  sheep." 

The  water  was  handed  to  him ;  after  a  while  Felim 
came  round  and  sat  up.  He  was  in  great  agony, 
but  "I  '11  go  home,"  said  the  courageous  lad,  en- 
deavoring to  stand  on  his  feet. 

Driscoll  forbade  him  to  rise.  "He  must  be  trans- 
ported to  some  place  nearer  than  Renmore,"  said  the 
doctor. 

By  this  time  Joan  had  recovered  her  senses  and 


230  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

came  flying  down  the  hill,  followed  by  Miss  O'Con- 
nor and  the  rest  of  their  company. 

"You  won't  let  him  die  here,"  she  said  with 
streaming  eyes.  "Oh,  Felim,  don't  die  on  us !"  and 
her  face  was  turned  to  the  lady,  wild  and  pale. 

"Take  him  up  to  the  house  without  delay,"  an- 
swered Lisaveta.  "Edmund,  Philip,  get  the  ser- 
vants ;  make  something  to  carry  him  on.  Trust  me, 
Joan,"  clasping  her  hand  warmly ;  "he  sha'n't  die  if 
I  can  help  it." 

They  were  already  putting  their  arms  under  the 
lad  as  Dr.  Driscoll  ordered,  with  infinite  gentleness 
conveying  him  toward  the  mansion.  He  was  hardly 
sensible,  and  like  a  sick  child,  with  his  arms  round 
Philip's  neck,  a  contrast,  which  many  felt,  to  the 
figure  he  had  made  on  the  wrestling-ground,  the 
young  fisherman  was  carried  slowly  across  the  lawn 
into  the  house,  where  they  laid  him  on  the  first  bed 
available.  The  sports  had  come  to  this  untimely 
end,  but  far  as  the  people  might  have  to  travel  that 
night,  they  lingered  until  word  was  sent  out  from  the 
doctor  that  Felim  would  not  die.  His  collar-bone 
had  been  set  without  trouble,  for,  as  a  surgeon, 
Driscoll  undoubtedly  knew  his  business.  The  con- 
sequences he  did  not  pretend  to  forecast,  but  there 
was  no  reason  to  suppose  they  would  be  fatal.  On 
this  assurance,  with  a  hearty  "Thanks  be  to  God," 


THE   LAST   MAY   DAY  231 

the  revelers,  now  sad  at  heart,  their  music  silenced, 
went  home. 

Much  as  she  abhorred  Dr.  Driscoll — the  word  is 
not  too  strong — Lisaveta  could  not  suffer  him  to 
leave  the  house  that  night.  By  her  entreaty  the  gen- 
tlemen from  Renmore  and  old  Cathal  stayed  like- 
wise. "How  should  I  feel  if  anything  happened," 
she  said  to  Edmund,  "and  I  alone  with  the  doctor 
and  a  dead  man  ?" 

But  O'Dwyer  refused  all  comfort.  "Oh,  Mr. 
Edmund,  if  ever  a  comb  was  cut,  't  is  mine — cut  to 
the  roots.  This  day  should  see  me  up  in  the  stir- 
rups, and  I  'm  bate  down  like  corn  in  a  high  wind. 
Where  's  the  poems  now — your  own  would  be  su- 
preme in  grace  and  melody — that  those  bards  should 
recite  to  crown  the  day?  Go,  ask  Darby  Fitz- 
maurice,  with  a  wanion  to  him!  No  contest  of 
songs  and  musicians — but  a  broken  collar-bone,  God 
save  us,  on  the  best  of  boys — and  May  Day  ruined !" 

"I  always  thought  the  day  unlucky,"  said  his 
friend,  with  significance.  "Was  there  any  person 
in  your  own  house  at  Renmore  to  keep  the  fire  in 
while  you  were  here?" 

"  T  would  keep  in  of  itself,"  said  the  wizard,  un- 
easily. 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  was  the  dark  reply;  "but  do  you 
get  "home  and  see  to  it." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

LANDLORD    AND    TENANT 

FELIM  was  almost  himself  again  next  morning; 
and  despite  what  the  old  schoolmaster  called 
"remonstrances  and  objurgations"  on  Miss  O'Con- 
nor's part,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  walk  over  the 
hills  with  Cathal  to  Renmore. 

"Better  the  end  of  a  feast  than  the  beginning  of  a 
fray,"  said  the  latter,  delighted.  "Happy  and  glad 
will  your  poor  mother  be  to  get  tidings  of  you  from 
yourself.  So,  in  God's  name,  let  us  go  the  road, 
like  honest  highwaymen." 

Joan,  who  saw  them  off,  not  without  a  sinking  at 
heart,  would  have  agreed  with  Edmund  in  calling 
May  Day  unlucky.  It  had  brought  mishap  to  young 
O'Riordan,  and  somehow  through  him,  a  shadow 
between  herself  and  Sir  Philip.  The  impalpable  was 
oppressive ;  she  had  never  felt  more  ill  at  ease,  and, 
as  she  turned  from  the  door  and  passed  up  by  Deir- 
dre's  figure  of  lamenting,  superstition  gripped  her 
once  again.  "The  life  is  gone  out  of  me  into  that 

white  stone,"  she  thought.     "I  could  fall  into  a  de- 

232 


LANDLORD   AND   TENANT  233 

cline  if  I  was  to  be  long  near  it."  Everything  tried 
her  simple  and  direct  nature.  Yesterday  she  had 
seen  Will  Hapgood  offering  a  devotion  to  Lady  Lis- 
carroll  that  no  one  else  seemed  to  remark.  What 
would  come  of  it?  Surely  no  good.  And  Philip's 
wrath  or  moodiness — was  he  out  of  temper  with 
Joan?  But  on  what  account?  She  thought  of 
her  father — kind  and  bright  and  unsteady — not  to  be 
trusted  alone.  "I  must  give  up  this  place,  go  home 
with  myself,  and  never  lave  him  any  more,"  she 
said  at  last.  "Dada  has  no  right  to  be  without 
wife  or  child — many  is  the  thing,  indeed,  where 
a  child  would  have  more  sense,  God  help  his  poor 
head!" 

Meanwhile  the  day  was  changing  from  light  to 
dark,  a  cold  rain  began  to  come  down,  and  the  sky, 
putting  off  its  colors,  turned  to  an  inky  sable.  The 
travelers  hastened  their  steps.  They  talked  cozily 
of  the  blazing  peat  fire  and  the  welcome  that  was 
waiting  at  Mrs.  O'Riordan's,  not  far  from  which 
stood  the  schoolmaster's  cottage.  But  the  rain 
caught  them  in  a  sudden  sheet ;  they  were  drenched ; 
and,  as  they  came  over  the  ridge  down  toward  the 
village,  a  thick  mist  hid  the  world  from  them. 
"Here  's  Kerry  law  for  poor  pilgrims,"  said  Cathal, 
on  whose  lips  the  rain  was  beating,  "but,  however, 
we  '11  soon  be  under  a  solid  roof,  not  like  the  crim- 


234  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

son-red  feathers  in  the  ould  tale  that  every  wind 
would  scatter." 

"Under  yon  thatch  we  '11  do  finely,"  said  his  com- 
panion, smiling,  as  the  rain-cloud  lifted.  "  'T  is 
mother's.  She  won't  be  expecting  me  with  this 
neck.  Dr.  Driscoll  was  to  lave  word  early  that  she 
should  not  torment  herself — I  was  in  good  hands." 

The  mist  cleared  suddenly,  and  Cathal  stopped 
dead. 

"What  's  on  you?"  asked  Felim,  pulled  up  like- 
wise with  a  jerk.  "Oh,  God  in  Heaven !"  cried  the 
youth,  overcome  by  the  same  spectacle,  "is  it  your 
house  I  see  in  that  condition  ?  Cathal,  man,  what  is 
come  to  the  place?" 

Cathal  made  no  answer.  His  lips  were  dry,  his 
tongue  refused  utterance.  With  a  wild,  irregular 
run  he  plunged  down  the  hill,  tore  like  a  mad  crea- 
ture through  the  puddles  and  the  unclean  garbage 
heaped  in  his  path,  and,  as  if  helpless  or  drunk, 
clasped  with  quivering  fingers  the  post,  against 
which  he  stumbled,  of  the  cabin  entrance.  But  door 
there  was  none.  The  entrance  gaped  like  an  empty 
eye-socket.  Above,  within,  the  sky  glimmered 
through  clouds — the  roof  of  the  cottage  had  been 
chucked  off,  broken  to  splinters,  and  in  huge  wet 
pieces  the  thatch,  discolored  with  vegetation,  lay  in- 
side and  outside  the  wrecked  cabin.  Its  mud  walls 


LANDLORD   AND   TENANT  235 

had  been  pulled  down  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
ground.  Where  the  fireplace  had  blazed  not  forty- 
eight  hours  ago,  a  blackened  patch  was  visible. 
Empty,  silent,  under  the  spouting  rain,  stood 
Cathal's  home,  or  lay  in  mud  and  smut  and  mol- 
dered  straw  all  about, — the  corpse  of  a  home,  torn 
to  bleeding  pieces  by  some  vile  enchanter.  And 
the  old  man  embraced  the  dumb  wood,  kissed  it  pas- 
sionately, and  cried,  with  miserable  tears,  like  an 
imbecile,  saying  he  knew  not  what. 

"Where  's  the  few  sticks  I  had,  anyhow?" 
he  shrieked  furiously.  "Did  he  take  them  for  the 
rint  ?  Where  's  my  books,  my  Greek  and  my  Latin, 
that  I  had  from  my  young  days?  Would  they  be 
any  good  to  Davy  Roche?  Oh!" — falling  on  his 
knees  and  lifting  his  hands — "short  life  and  hell  to 
him  this  hour!  God  above,  let  him  be  without  a 
bed,  unless  in  the  pit  of  damnation!  Look  at  that 
flagstone,  my  poor  boy;  't  is  all  the  fire  that  's  left 
me.  May  hell's  could  flagstone  receive  and  welcome 
him  that  quinched  the  hearth  on  me  and  mine !  Oh, 
Felim,  was  this  the  May  Day  I  left  behind  me !" 

"Whisht,  Cathal,  whisht,  my  dear  soul,"  said 
O'Riordan;  "don't  be  kneeling  in  the  wet  and  curs- 
ing that  way.  We  '11  go  to  my  mother's." 

"I  '11  die  where  I  lived,"  shrieked  the  old  man, 
tearing  at  his  gray  hairs.  "House  and  home  are 


236  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

gone  from  me.  The  poor  tugurium  I  had  these 
thirty  years — mea  paupera  regna — open  now  to  all 
the  winds  of  heaven !  Trusting  to  the  showers  and 
the  storms  it  is — without  roof,  without  door!  My 
own  hands  put  in  that  door ;  how  many  times,  sitting 
up  on  the  ridge,  did  I  thatch  the  place  and  get  no 
allowance  or  compensation  for  it!  God!  is  there 
justice  at  all  to  be  had  in  this  world?" 

His  loud  cries  and  lamentations,  borne  on  the 
wind,  brought  women  to  their  doors;  children, 
paddling  like  ducks  in  the  stream,  barefoot  and 
lively,  began  to  gather  round;  while  the  school- 
master knelt,  his  every  second  word  a  prayer,  which, 
as  Felim  said  afterward,  turned  black  in  the  face. 
That  young  hero  was  knocking  violently  at  his 
mother's  door,  but  could  get  no  answer  until  his 
voice  made  him  known.  At  that  the  door  opened; 
Mrs.  O'Riordan  appeared,  her  pale  face  wrapped  in 
a  shawl.  She  gave  a  wild  cry  on  seeing  him,  and 
hugged  the  great  fellow  to  her  breast. 

"Praise  be  to  the  Mother  of  God,  I  have  you  once 
more!"  she  exclaimed.  "Come  in  out  of  the  rain." 

"But  Cathal,  mother — the  schoolmaster,"  he  said, 
resisting.  "Don't  you  hear  him  screeching  inside 
those  four  walls  ?  What  happened  yesterday  to  his 
place?  Sure,  I  need  n't  ask;  but  he  is  out  of  his 
mind  with  the  grief  and  desperation.  Come  and 
spake  a  soothing  word  to  him." 


LANDLORD   AND   TENANT  237 

Reluctant,  with  a  scare  in  her  kind  eyes,  the 
woman  was  led  by  her  son  across  the  threshold  of 
the  ruin.  A  larger  crowd  was  collecting  every 
moment;  but  they  stood  aloof,  in  silence,  curious  to 
see  what  would  come  of  all  this,  held  back  as  by 
an  invisible  hand  from  approaching.  When  Mrs. 
O'Riordan  went  up  to  Cathal,  there  were  significant 
shrugs  and  whispers. 

"I  am  sorry,  indeed,  for  you,  poor  man,"  she  said, 
wiping  her  eyes.  "But  to  think  of  Joan  breaks  my 
heart.  'T  is  a  lamentable  thing  for  both  of  ye." 

"Don't  name  that  name,  or  I  '11  lose  my  raison 
entirely,"  answere4  Cathal,  stretching  out  his  hands 
in  tremulous  agitation.  "Was  there  ever  a  man — 
look  on  me  this  day,  Cauth  O'Riordan,  and  say  was 
any  man  ever  like  me?  Without  a  wife,  without  a 
roof  over  my  ould  head,  at  the  mercy  of  a  scall-crow, 
gray  of  coat,  sharp  of  beak,  ready  to  rip  the  eyes  out 
of  every  skull." 

He  was  a  pitiable  sight,  stained  with  mud,  rain, 
and  tears;  his  poor  old  garments  draggled  in  tem- 
pest, his  lips  muttering  incoherently. 

"We  '11  get  nothing  by  staying  here,"  said  Mrs. 
O'Riordan,  who  had  looked  away  as  if  she  did  not 
hear  his  last  speech.  "Come,  Felim,  dear,"  and  she 
was  retreating,  when  the  lad  took  O'Dwyer's  hand. 

"Lave  this  and  come  along,"  he  insisted;  "what 
use  is  there  in  these  broken-down  walls?" 


238  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"He  must  not  come  into  my  house,"  said  the 
woman,  with  a  resolution  that  made  her  voice  sound 
cold.  "You  won't  complain  of  me,  Mr.  O'Dwyer; 
but  we  have  all  to  look  to  ourselves." 

"What  do  you  mean,  mother  ?"  asked  Felim ;  "he 
shall  not  come  with  us  ?  What,  the  friend  we  always 
knew — Joan's  father — not  to  get  shelter  in  our 
house,  and  he  thrown  out  on  a  day  like  this  ?" 

"Have  your  own  way,  Felim,"  she  answered,  with 
a  burst  of  tears;  "there  is  n't  one  standing  outside 
but  will  tell  you  what  orders  Mr.  Roche  gave  yester- 
day, on  the  very  spot  where  you  are  this  minute, 
tapping  his  boot  with  his  cane.  Would  I  begrudge 
Cathal  O'Dwyer  the  half  of  what  we  have?" 

"What  orders  did  he  give?"  inquired  her  son, 
twitching  as  if  Mr.  Roche's  cane  had  struck  a  smart 
blow  on  his  collar-bone. 

"When  the  roof  was  pulled  in  pieces  as  you  'd 
pluck  a  goose,  and  the  sods  of  turf  kicked  hither  and 
thither,  he  gave  notice  that  any  one  of  his  tenants 
should  not  give  shelter  to  this  man,  or  they  'd  be 
turned  on  the  roadside.  'I  mane,'  said  he,  'to 
sweep  O'Dwyer  out  of  the  place.  I  '11  now  destroy 
the  school  on  him  as  I  destroyed  the  house  he 
thought  his  own.  I  will  let  him  know  which  of  us 
burns  the  broom — and  tell  him  that  from  me,  with 
my  compliments.' ' 


LANDLORD   AND   TENANT  239 

"But  this  one  night  can  do  no  harm,"  said  the 
fisher  lad,  wincing,  yet  resolute.  "The  divil  himself 
would  n't  drive  an  ould  man  from  his  door  in  the 
weather  we  're  having." 

"There  's  worse  than  the  divil,"  answered  his 
mother,  with  a  sour  smile.  "He  's  a  bad  landlord, 
maybe,  but 't  is  n't  house  room  he  denies  to  the  peo- 
ple, nor  the  sod  o'  turf  nayther.  I  never  hear  tell 
that  he  evicted  a  poor  sowl.  Do  you  go  in,  darlin', 
and  not  be  filling  your  young  bones  with  aches  and 
agues  in  the  wet." 

"God  direct  me,"  whispered  old  Cathal;  "I  'm 
down,  if  ever  a  man  was.  Gray  hairs,  look  for  no 
respect;  don't  think  to  have  friends  unless  there  's 
money  with  you." 

"Never  say  it,"  exclaimed  Felim,  cut  to  the  in- 
wards by  Cathal's  taunt.  "Let  a  thousand  Davy 
Roches  come  at  us,  't  is  not  in  this  miserable  way  we 
will  abandon  a  friend.  Be  the  same  curse  to  me 
that  you  put  on  him,  O'Dwyer,  but  I  will  keep  the 
door  open  for  you.  Man,  don't  deny  me." 

The  shawled  woman  was  crying  quietly  in  her 
distress  and  affection;  the  lookers-on,  frightened  as 
hares,  began  to  moan  with  that  peculiar  soughing 
which  rises  suddenly  to  a  shrill  blast  of  lament  from 
Celtic  lips;  it  was  a  dirge,  an  ulagbn,  over  Cathal 
and  his  ruined  walls — pitiable,  ineffective;  and  the 


240  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

rain  fell,  the  wind  whistled,  the  crowd  of  women 
and  children  seemed  like  desolate  sparrows  piping 
in  the  cold.  They  were  all  in  rags  and  tatters,  with  a 
lack-luster  expression  in  many  eyes  which  betrayed 
hunger.  All  dreaded  the  power  that,  when  it  chose, 
could  fling  them  naked  on  the  world,  as  it  had  flung 
the  schoolmaster  without  so  much  as  his  "two  soles' 
breadth"  of  land  to  call  his  own.  But  of  resistance 
they  did  not  dream.  Young  O'Riordan's  defiant 
cry  found  no  echo  in  these  women's  hearts;  they 
pitied  his  mother;  they  would  have  done  what  she 
did.  "If  O'Dwyer  made  a  better  hand  of  his 
tongue,"  said  one  tall  virago,  "  't  is  n't  that  would 
be  happening  to  him  now." 

But  the  wizard  was  buttoning  his  old  blue  coat, 
and  grasping  the  blackthorn  he  carried.  Again  he 
pressed  a  burning  kiss  on  the  posts  of  his  deserted 
hovel.  "Felim,  you  have  my  thanks  and  my  bless- 
ing," he  said,  with  a  certain  grave  dignity.  "Cauth, 
I  am  not  vexed — don't  believe  it — that  you  kept  the 
door  against  me.  Tell  me  only  what  was  done  to 
my  things — the  little  peculium  of  furniture  and 
books  I  had,  where  are  they?" 

"Locked  up  in  the  bailiff's  barn  till  you  redeem 
them,"  she  said  more  cheerfully,  feeling  that  he 
would  not  now  take  her  boy's  offer.  "You  will 
surely  get  help  from  friends  for  that  same." 


LANDLORD   AND  TENANT  241 

"He  that  sent  us  pigs  will  send  us  sheep,"  an- 
swered Cathal,  with  pious,  satirical  double-meaning; 
and  then,  the  tears  running  down  his  furrowed  vis- 
age, "God  knows  I  would  n't  be  sorry  were  Joan 
and  myself  lying  in  the  one  grave." 

"Yerra,  man,"  cried  Mrs.  O'Riordan,  "time 
enough,  time  enough!  'T  is  many  a  day  in  the 
churchyard  we  '11  be.  Have  patience,  and  trust 
in  God." 

"But  since  Joan  is  the  only  one  belonging  to  me," 
he  went  on,  "I  will  go  back  as  I  came  to  Airgead 
Ross.  If  I  was  a  pig  or  a  dog  itself,  I  would  be  sure 
of  some  place  to  sleep  in.  Worse  than  die  I  can't." 

He  waved  his  hand  mournfully  to  the  crowd,  and 
with  strangely  vacant  face  was  stepping  toward  the 
hill  he  had  lately  descended  when  Felim,  with  a  loud 
cry,  joined  him. 

"You  will  not  travel  the  road  alone — I  '11  go  with 
you,"  he  said.  The  old  man  declined  his  company, 
almost  in  anger;  a  painful  dispute  was  threatening, 
when  Frank  Hurley — "a  gossoon  the  height  of  my 
knee,"  O'Riordan  would  have  called  him,  and,  in 
fact,  a  sharp  little  lad,  freckle-faced  and  fair-haired, 
with  more  brains  than  length  of  limb — ran  up  saying 
he  had  a  load  of  turf  to  carry  within  three  miles  of 
Silverwood,  and  he  was  willing  to  drive  Mr. 
O'Dwyer  the  rest  of  the  way. 

16 


242  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

In  blinding  storm  they  set  out ;  their  poor  rags  of 
clothes  were  soaked;  yet  before  they  moved  down 
into  the  valley  sunshine  was  breaking  through  on 
every  side,  the  clouds  rolled  off  in  brilliant  masses, 
leaving  a  deep  blue  sky  visible,  and  the  song  of  birds 
was  lively  in  copse  and  hollow.  But  neither  for  wet 
nor  dry  did  Cathal  unclose  his  lips. 

Frank  Hurley  drove  his  cart  up  to  the  front  door 
of  the  big  house  with  a  flourish  and  a  clatter.  He 
enjoyed  taking  part  in  a  tragedy  like  this.  From 
the  window  Lisaveta  had  seen  with  astonishment 
the  wizard's  return,  and  she  ran  out,  in  her  impulsive 
way,  to  make  inquiries,  the  two  young  men  from 
Renmore,  who  were  not  yet  gone,  following  her. 
But  though  she  could  ask,  O'Dwyer  could  not  an- 
swer. He  was  dead  beat. 

"  'T  is  evicted  he  is,  and  his  house  thrown  down," 
cried  the  sharp  little  boy,  full  of  his  story.  "Mr. 
Davy  Roche,  ma'am,  said  he  'd  make  an  example  of 
the  schoolmaster  for  a  curse  he  put  on  him.  'T  was 
yesterday  he  made  it,  while  ye  were  dancing  and 
lepping." 

"But,  my  poor  man,  you  could  n't  be  evicted  with- 
out notice,"  said  Miss  O'Connor.  "Had  n't  you 
warning?" 

"  'Deed  and  he  had,"  answered  Frank,  as  Cathal 
would  not  speak.  "Last  November  every  man  in 


LANDLORD  AND  TENANT  243 

the  place  had  notice  to  quit  if  their  rint  was  not 
paid." 

"We  were  always  noticed,"  said  the  old  man,  with 
difficulty,  as  if  dreaming  aloud,  "always  a  gale,  or 
two  gales,  of  rint  behind,  and  ejectment  hanging 
over  our  heads.  So  customary  a  thing  was  it,  we 
never  used  to  mind  till  the  bailiff  stood  at  the  door. 
Thin  we  paid  what  we  had." 

"That  is  our  bad  policy,"  said  Edmund :  "one  side 
threatens,  the  other  delays  till  the  last  moment.  I 
knew  Roche  had  his  hand  ready  to  strike.  Driscoll 
shouted  the  word  to  me  yesterday  as  I  came  along." 

"So  he  threw  down  the  house  and  the  school," 
continued  little  Hurley.  "The  bailiff  never  let  his 
eyes  off  you,  Cathal,  till  you  had  your  back  turned. 
Thin  in  with  him." 

O'Dwyer  started.  "I  did  n't  hear  the  school  was 
down,"  he  said  piteously. 

"Sure,  Mrs.  O'Riordan  said  so,  but  you  were  on 
your  knees  baring  your  heart  to  God,  and  wishing 
bad  luck  to  Roche,"  answered  the  boy.  "Faith,  they 
made  smithereens  of  the  school  too.  The  divils  o' 
childer  gave  a  hand  to  it,  and  why  would  n't  they? 
'T  is  n't  schooling  they  want,  but  plenty  o'  praties 
and  buttermilk."  At  which  the  audience  laughed, 
and  Hurley  felt  elated ;  he  was  a  born  comedian. 

"Let  it  all  go,"  exclaimed  Cathal,  in  despair ;  "my 


244  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

books  are  in  pound,  my  ferule  is  in  pieces,  and  my 
scholars  take  part  with  the  Cork  butterman.  I 
must  beg  the  wide  world  now.  Where  's  Joan  this 
minute?  She  is  all  I  have,''  looking  round  without 
addressing  any  one  in  particular.  His  mind  was 
grievously  shaken. 

"He  said  if  there  was  a  place  for  a  pig  or  a  dog 
at  Airgead  Ross,  he  'd  be  sure  of  one  half  of  it," 
Frank  resumed  confidently ;  "I  brought  him  to  your 
ladyship  on  that  account." 

"You  did  well,  my  boy,"  answered  Lisaveta,  lay- 
ing a  kind  hand  upon  the  wizard's  sleeve.  "I  will 
find  shelter  for  you,  my  friend,"  she  went  on,  "and 
here  is  Joan  to  comfort  you." 

The  girl  was  entering  from  the  woods  when  she 
caught  sight  of  her  father  and  ran  to  him.  A 
second  time  the  story  had  to  be  told — the  more 
hideous  the  longer  it  was  dwelt  upon.  Philip,  who 
all  this  while  stood  silent,  not  greatly  attending  to 
O'Dwyer,  now  felt  a  strange  uneasiness.  With 
the  management  of  his  own  property  he  had  never 
interfered.  Evictions  were  so  common  that  a  single 
instance  had  no  power  to  move  him ;  like  most  Irish 
landlords,  he  was  neither  a  profound  economist  nor 
a  man  of  large  imagination,  and  if  Cathal  had  been 
childless,  his  misfortune  would  have  sounded  in  deaf 
ears  to  Philip.  But  Joan's  bitter,  though  controlled, 
agony  was  too  much  for  him. 


LANDLORD   AND   TENANT  245 

"We  can't  let  this  go  on,"  he  said  in  an  undertone 
to  his  cousin,  who  eyed  him  with  some  obscure 
meaning.  "Miss  O'Connor,  I  think  between  us  we 
should  be  a  match  for  this  butterman.  He  is  a 
tenant  of  one  of  my  tenants,  very  wealthy — I  be- 
lieve he  holds  a  mortgage  on  the  Renmore  estate — 
but  that  is  no  reason  why  its  owner  should  stand 
aside  in  a  bad  business." 

"God  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Joan;  "help  us  now  and 
there  is  nothing  we  won't  do  for  you." 

"What  would  you  think  of  doing?"  inquired  the 
mistress  of  Silverwood. 

"There  is  that  lodge  in  the  park,  Edmund,"  said 
the  baronet;  "it  stands  empty  since  our  keeper,  Mau- 
rice Griffin,  emigrated.  I  will  have  it  repaired. 
O'Dwyer  can  live  in  it  till  we  put  him  back  in  the 
village." 

"And  I  will  go  with  you,  father,"  said  Joan,  her 
arms  around  Cathal's  neck;  "I  should  never  leave 
you  as  I  did." 

"I  spint  the  money  you  earned,  my  poor  girl. 
Can  you  forgive  a  foolish  ould  drunkard?"  whis- 
pered the  schoolmaster,  clinging  to  her  like  a  child 
as  he  was,  in  spite  of  his  learning  and  his  flashes  of 
genius. 

"God  go  with  it,"  she  answered;  "as  long  as  we 
have  ourselves  we  '11  not  complain." 

Philip  had  drawn  close  to  them,  while  Lisaveta 


246  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

put  more  questions  to  Frank  Hurley.  The  lad  was 
narrating  how  Davy  Roche,  with  his  green-coated 
soldiers,  the  police  force  sent  to  protect  him,  had 
invaded  the  village,  served  fresh  notices  on  the  ten- 
ants who  held  under  him,  warned  every  house  that 
none  must  give  shelter  to  the  man  he  was  turning 
out,  and,  after  wrecking  school  and  cabin,  had  de- 
parted, leaving  his  terror  on  this  free  and  indepen- 
dent population.  "If  he  was  king  of  all  Ireland,  he 
could  n't  do  more,"  concluded  Frank. 

"Nor  a  hundredth  part  as  much,"  replied  Miss 
O'Connor.  "He  passed  a  sentence  of  death  with- 
out judge  or  jury." 

"But  will  you  go  from  my  mother,  Joan  ?"  Philip 
was  asking,  divided  between  his  wishes  and  his  fears. 
"I  felt  easy  as  long  as  you  were  with  her." 

"My  father  is  more  to  me  than  all  the  world," 
she  said  passionately. 

"Well,  you  are  coming  to  Renmore.  It  will  be 
like  coming  home,"  he  answered.  "The  old  place 
won't  look  so  gloomy.  I  will  see  you  have  a  lodg- 
ing fit  for  you.  No — what  could  be  fit  for  you? 
But  I  expect  you  both  this  time  to-morrow  evening. 
Now  let  us  break  the  news  to  my  mother." 

His  joy  was  unmistakable  in  eye  and  voice — a 
strange  ardor  in  one  so  reserved,  and  very  unlike 
him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HAWK    OR    EAGLE 

THE  tale  now  takes  on  a  mingled  hue — high 
saffron    lights    showing    uncannily    between 
clouds  pitch  dark — a  spectral  appearance  we  never 
see  without  astonishment  on  days  when  storms  are 
abroad. 

In  the  old  keeper's  lodge — around  it  thick  brush- 
wood, below  it  the  sparkling  Lonndubh,  silent  or 
singing — Cathal  the  wizard  sat,  his  spells  broken,  his 
mind  unhinged.  The  occupation  was  gone  which 
made  him  first  man  in  the  village  after  Father  Fal- 
vey — for  he  held  himself  more  than  equal  to  the  il- 
literate Driscoll.  Where  now  could  he  pluck  up  a 
spirit  to  dance  the  long  steps,  or  short,  which  had 
made  him  famous  ?  What  would  provoke  the  song, 
the  merry  word,  in  one  who  was  ashamed  to  be  seen 
in  the  street  of  Renmore,  whose  scholars  had  helped 
to  pull  down  his  school,  and  whose  cronies  were 
banished  by  Joan's  presence  from  the  hearth  she 
kept  ablaze? 

Do  not  laugh  at  Cathal;  his  temperament,  with 
247 


248  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

its  fitful  changes,  was  that  of  the  poet  or  the  actor, 
ill  adapted  to  the  meridian  of  vulgar  day ;  but  given 
the  opportunities  he  never  enjoyed,  this  poor  wreck 
of  a  man  might  have  done  brilliant  things.  "I  am 
not  as  I  was,  I  am  not  as  I  was,"  he  would  whimper. 
"A  great  worm  is  gnawing  inside  my  brain,  as  bad 
as  Connor  MacNessa's.  I  'm  vanquished  and  struck 
by  a  diabolical  being  of  evil  aspect;  but  don't  fear, 
Joan,  I  give  the  back  of  my  hand  to  maledictions. 
They  pulled  the  thatch  on  me,  as  Father  Falvey  gave 
out  from  the  altar  they  would.  Now  I  will  be  like 
Saint  Mochta,  that  never  ate  a  bite  was  fat,  I  '11  curse 
nayther  man  nor  demon,  though  Davy  Roche  would 
exhaust  the  vocabulary  of  every  satirist  on  Ireland's 
ground." 

He  kept  his  pledge,  perhaps  not  wisely.  "Give 
sorrow  words"  is  good  counsel;  being  hindered 
of  his  peculiar,  not  to  say  piquant,  imprecations, 
O'Dwyer  sat  brooding  when  he  should  have  been  up 
and  alert.  To  his  daughter  he  resigned  the  task  of 
life ;  he  had  done  with  it. 

"  'T  is  an  April  fool's  tale,"  he  would  mutter,  as 
Edmund  attempted  to  comfort  him — the  young 
man  liked,  on  rainy  days,  to  while  away  an  hour 
in  fanciful  and  dreamy  talk  with  his  friend,  who 
stirred  out  as  seldom  as  he  could  help — "an  April 
fool's  tale  it  is,  and  I  am  the  fool  telling  it." 


HAWK   OR   EAGLE  249 

"You  won't  be  always  so,"  answered  Edmund, 
humoring  the  old  man.  "My  cousin  will  find  you 
a  schoolroom  yet;  and  when  Joan  is  married — " 

"Live  horse  and  you  '11  get  grass,"  was  the  fretful 
rejoinder.  "Who  would  marry  the  poor  oinseach, 
that  has  n't  a  guinea  to  her  fortune  ?" 

"Sure,  Felim  O'Riordan  would.  He  is  a  sober, 
steady  boy,  never  in  drink,  and  as  good  as  a  son  to 
you.  What  else  brings  him  this  way  so  often?" 

"I  have  nayther  a  cow's  grass  nor  a  quarter  of 
red  bog  to  give  with  Joan."  said  Cathal,  despon- 
dently. "Bate  and  broke  is  her  father,  and  the  girl 
has  but  her  spinning-wheel." 

"For  all  that,  she  would  do  welt  to  marry  Felim," 
returned  the  poet,  "and  do  you  encourage  him, 
Cathal." 

The  old  man  fell  into  his  listless  ways  again, 
letting  the  world  drift.  But  Edmund,  who  was 
soon  leaving  Renmore  on  a  visit  to  some  Galway 
acquaintances — the  Stauntons  of  Altamira — had  in- 
tended a  real,  though  vague,  warning  against  he 
could  hardly  tell  what — perhaps  it  was  the  lonely 
situation  of  a  girl  who  charmed  his  own  fancy  not 
a  little,  or  pity  akin  to  fear;  nay,  it  might  be  the 
secret  influence  of  a  thought  which  had  crossed  his 
mind  on  hearing  Philip  exclaim  against  Felim's 
opening  the  snake-dance  with  Joan.  It  was  all  this, 


250  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

and  more;  he  scented  danger,  but  could  do  noth- 
ing except  alarm  Cathal,  who  would  not  take  the 
hint. 

"How  long  will  you  be  away  from  us,  sir?"  asked 
the  schoolmaster.  "Those  Connacht  people  talk  a 
strange  Irish,  short  and  sharp  like  the  yelping  of  a 
greyhound.  You  will  be  sorry  to  lose  the  soft,  musi- 
cal Munster  speech." 

"I  don't  know  when  my  errand  will  be  finished." 
said  the  young  man.  "It  is  on  Miss  O'Connor's 
account  I  am  going  more  than  my  own." 

"Joy  be  with  the  two  of  ye/'  said  Cathal.  "I 
would  not  wish  a  rake  of  the  world  to  have  Charlie 
O'Connor's  daughter — women  are  bad,  but  herself 
and  my  Joan  are  the  best  of  them.  We  '11  see  you 
get  the  Squire  of  Airgead  Ross." 

"But,  my  dear  O'Dwyer,"  said  the  other,  laugh- 
ing, "I  have  n't  a  cow's  grass  either.  Is  it  for  a 
poor  man  like  me  to  be  courting  a  great  fortune? 
Would  you  respect  me  if  I  did  ?" 

"Ayther  yourself  or  Sir  Philip  must  have  her,  if 
all  I  used  to  hear  is  true,"  said  the  wizard,  "and 
though  he  gave  me  this  bit  of  a  cot,  and  his  hand 
is  open  to  me  always,  I  'd  sooner  it  was  you,  Mr. 
Edmund." 

"The  devil  take  gossip,"  cried  his  visitor,  impa- 
tiently. "How  easily  it  settles  everything!  My 


HAWK   OR   EAGLE  251 

cousin  and  I  have  some  right  to  do  all  Miss  O'Con- 
nor asks,  after  what  she  has  done  for  us.  All  her 
striving  is  to  improve  her  property  and  the  thou- 
sands upon  it.  My  friends,  the  Stauntons,  have 
done  wonders  with  their  own;  she  requests  me  to 
bring  back  a  report  of  the  land.  Why  should  n't  I  ?" 
"No  raison  in  life,  sir.  Go,  and  Heaven's  grace 
be  your  guide!  But  if  we  don't  see  the  day  when 
Renmore  and  Airgead  Ross  give  a  hand  to  aich 
other,  we  '11  think  there  is  no  answer  to  our  daily 
prayers.  Slan  leat!" 

THEY  parted,  and  another  little  drama  swept  this 
from  the  boards.  Joan  was  separated  from  the  vil- 
lage— her  large  world  with  its  gossip  for  its  con- 
science; she  had  no  duty  now  to  Lady  Liscarroll, 
honorably  detained  at  Silverwood.  She  was  left 
to  herself;  but  the  experiences  of  the  last  months 
had  brought  her  in  contact  with  violent  passions, 
new  feelings,  difficult  turns  of  life ;  her  father's  suf- 
fering made  the  girl  long  to  be  happy.  She  could  be 
very  patient;  but  resigned  she  was  not. 

Her  spinning,  her  small  patch  of  garden,  the 
dappled,  fawn-like  kerry  of  which  Sir  Philip  had 
made  them  a  present,  took  up  many  hours  of  the 
day.  She  was  in  and  out,  getting  a  livelihood  for 
them  both  in  a  singularly  primitive  fashion — like  the 


252  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

birds  silent  in  the  summer  woods  or  driving  along 
the  seashore.  But  thoughts,  fancies,  regrets,  long- 
ings, how  could  she  not  indulge  them  at  her  age? 
Edmund  was  right;  peril  hovered  near.  Had  it 
shown  as  a  hawk,  she  would  have  run  in  from  it. 
No  hawk,  but  a  wounded  golden  eagle  seemed  to 
drop  at  her  feet. 

Philip,  too,  had  his  world,  into  which  he  went  less 
and  less.  The  country  houses  complained  that  he 
was  following  Sir  Walter's  misanthropic  ways,  be- 
coming an  eccentric  young  man,  who  would  end  by 
doing  some  foolish  thing,  but  would  marry  none  of 
their  eligible  damsels.  True,  he  was  known  to  be 
embarrassed  in  his  money  matters ;  but  so  were  they 
all,  in  spite  of  their  getting  large  rents;  for  a  pre- 
vious generation  had  mortgaged  Ireland  in  its  fine, 
careless  rapture. 

And  there  was  Lady  Liscarroll!  With  a  start 
and  a  laugh  they  heard  the  tale  of  her  dancing  on 
May  Day — those  few  reluctant  steps  which  she  had 
taken  with  Will  Hapgood  were  multiplied  to  a  per- 
formance that  challenged  opinion.  The  Irish  light- 
ness of  temper  allows  a  good  deal;  it  is  not  strait- 
laced;  it  would  dance  without  distinguishing  ranks 
on  a  holiday,  and  to-morrow  all  would  be  in  their 
place.  Yet  who  can  marvel  that  Philip  shrank  from 
meeting  the  widow  of  Derryvore  and  adepts  like  her 


HAWK   OR   EAGLE  253 

in  the  art  of  stabbing  with  questions?  Thus  the 
Lord  of  Renmore  was  abandoned  to  influences  old 
and  irresistible  as  Nature. 

The  wizard,  if  cross-examined  at  this  juncture, 
would  have  explained  all  by  a  strong  Celtic  belief — 
Sir  Philip  was  "under  bonds."  Not  the  vow  which 
we  take,  but  the  burden  which  is  laid  upon  us — a 
doom,  a  handicapping  in  the  race  against  fortune — 
that  is  how  we  must  render  this  deep,  barbaric 
thought,  corresponding  to  ideas  now  not  so  much 
clarified  as  translated  into  another  speech  by  our 
men  of  knowledge. 

Under  bonds  to  his  dead  father,  not  yet  avenged 
in  the  grave  to  which  a  wife  had  hurried  him ;  under 
bonds  to  that  sin-possessed  mother,  mighty  in  her 
hardness  of  heart  and  blind  obstinacy;  under  bonds 
to  Cathal  himself,  whose  magic  draught  had  rolled 
away  the  mist  from  the  stream  on  which  Philip  was 
floating  out  to  sea.  Who  can  escape  his  fate  ?  This 
it  was  to  be  under  bonds.  In  the  stories  which 
framed  his  philosophy  and  that  of  his  countrymen, 
the  schoolmaster  would  recall  how  every  effort  to 
baffle  destiny  led  straight  to  its  fulfilment.  Perhaps 
he  was  himself  to  witness  a  new  version  of  that 
wonderful  saga,  "The  Death  of  Diarmuid,  Son  of 
Fergus,"  which  he  had  often  told  on  a  winter's  night 
round  the  hearth,  not  without  applause  and  shudder- 


254  THE   WIZARD'S    KNOT 

ing.  "This  is  your  road,"  said  Black  Hugh,  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway,  and  he  struck  a  spear  in  the 
king's  breast  that  broke  his  spine. 

THEY  could  meet  in  these  woods,  at  the  lodge,  down 
among*  the  copses  by  the  river,  in  the  hollow  clefts 
of  that  ridge  of  rocks,  even  at  the  castle,  and  who 
gave  them  a  second  thought?  With  his  fowling- 
piece  or  his  fishing-rod  the  master  might  be  out  all 
day;  unless  he  turned  up  toward  the  village,  he  was 
in  a  solitary  land,  open-eyed  to  the  sun,  gloomed  over 
by  the  clouds,  with  an  empty  sea  view  before  him. 
Joan  would  persuade  her  father  to  sit  in  front  of  his 
door  on  the  fine  days;  and  there  the  baronet  could 
stand  or  pace  with  hasty  strides,  talking  to  his  dogs, 
watching  the  sky  in  silence. 

This  might  have  been  accident;  it  persisted  in 
the  pretence  of  a  mere  chance  wandering  about  the 
banks  of  the  Lonndubh;  and  neither  of  them  was 
taken  in,  though  both  argued  the  point  with  a  certain 
unwelcome  disputant  in  their  own  hearts.  Did  Joan 
long  for  that  highest  berry  on  the  rowan  tree  which 
the  song  warned  her  was  bitter?  Not  even  in  her 
dreams;  yet  she  should  have  partly  guessed  how  it 
was  with  Philip.  And  he,  in  the  most  hidden  folds 
of  his  self-knowledge,  did  he  mean  more  than  he 
said,  differently  from  what  he  would  have  called  a 
man's  plain  duty?  The  effect  of  all  overpowering 


HAWK   OR   EAGLE  255 

emotion  is  to  forget  the  past,  not  to  look  beyond 
the  moment.  These  are  its  bonds.  He  was  in  them 
irretrievably. 

Another  hint  must  be  thrown  out,  in  the  most 
delicate  shadow,  just  where  the  sun  darkens  and 
brightens  again;  impossible  to  say  how  instanta- 
neously. With  all  her  graces  and  refinements,  Joan 
was  of  the  people,  bred  up  in  a  submission  to  the 
ruling  class  which  Miss  O'Connor  declared  no 
Russian  peasant  could  rival.  It  was  in  her  blood. 
Other  feelings,  and  the  example  of  a  marvelous  inno- 
cence all  round,  would  temper  the  consequences 
of  this  dread,  which  seized  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  in  Renmore  at  the  bare  apprehension  that  their 
gods  of  the  land  were  angry  with  them.  But  the 
terror  could  not  be  overcome,  much  less  rooted  out. 
Had  Philip  been  a  tyrant  bent  on  evil,  neither  Joan 
nor  her  father  would  have  thought  it  advisable  to 
withstand  him  to  his  face.  They  would  fear  and 
tremble  while  they  sought  to  creep  away  from  the 
danger,  like  beaten  hounds.  Whoever  chooses  may 
still  track  the  remembrance  of  these  things  up  and 
down  the  wilder  parts  of  Ireland.  When  the  squire 
took  notice  of  a  girl  in  Joan's  position  she  had  the 
alternatives  of  finessing  or  surrendering,  seldom  of 
boldly  resisting.  The  droit  du  seigneur  had  not 
utterly  died  away. 

But  let  this  be  a  shadow,  no  more — enough  to 


256  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

make  the  beginning  easier  than  it  might  have  been. 
Joan  had  the  temper  of  steel ;  she  was  now  to  be  tried 
in  the  fire.  And  Philip — how  could  he  mean  harm, 
or  ask  himself  whether  he  meant  it,  fascinated  as  he 
was  under  a  rush  of  feeling  the  like  to  which  he 
had  never  imagined  ?  His  difficult,  vexed,  untamed 
nature  was  melting  into  ecstasy.  Asleep  or  awake, 
this  image  he  had  before  him,  and  all  the  pent-up 
tenderness  of  an  affection  which  no  one  suspected, 
which  not  even  his  father  had  thought  of  ascribing  to 
so  inarticulate  a  creature,  flowed  out  toward  it. 
He  was  transformed  or  bewitched.  Not  all  the  ar- 
guments suggested  by  difference  of  rank,  education, 
manners;  not  the  perils  ahead,  nor  the  uncertainty 
which,  for  some  good  while,  he  had  felt  as  to  the 
girl's  own  disposition,  cast  a  feather-weight  in  the 
scale.  That  magnet  drew  him  and  he  went  to  it  joy- 
fully, with  a  wild  delight. 

NOTHING  of  all  this  could  he  describe  or  analyze; 
wrhat  cared  he  ?  As  often  as  he  might,  he  was  stroll- 
ing down  by  the  magic  stream,  beating  with  a  bold 
hand  upon  the  door  of  the  lodge,  or,  best  of  all,  walk- 
ing in  a  reverie  which  made  the  world  an  enchant- 
ment, among  those  rocks  where,  in  a  little  time,  she 
would  be  found  alone.  They  made  no  plans  to  es- 
cape prying  eyes ;  it  may  be  questioned  if  he  gave  a 


HAWK  OR  EAGLE  257 

moment's  reflection  to  what  he  was  doing.  And 
she  dared  not.  This  whirlwind  was  carrying  them 
toward  a  darkness  her  vision  could  never  pierce. 

The  chief  blame  was,  undoubtedly,  Philip's.  His 
love  had  all  the  selfishness  that  attends  on  desire 
long  thwarted ;  but  the  lonely,  the  doomed,  as  he  had 
been,  to  a  solitude  made  for  them  by  the  crime  of 
their  nearest,  are  apt  to  claim  this  satisfaction.  He 
had  lost  father  and  mother;  his  days  were  torment, 
whether  Lady  Liscarroll  sat  a  prisoner  in  the  Gray 
Tower,  or  was  out  of  sight  at  Airgead  Ross.  Who 
could  prove  to  him  that  he  must  give  up  the  fairy 
bride  ? 

He  would  not — no,  though  the  something  un- 
speakable which  was  in  the  dark  should  make  an 
end  of  him.  The  delusion  gathered  upon  his  eye- 
balls, which,  it  must  be  said,  he  was  inviting.  To 
sacrifice  himself,  in  a  way  not  yet  traced  out,  he  was 
prepared,  might  he  die  with  this  delectable  passion 
consuming  his  flesh  and  his  spirit.  He  would  have 
his  love;  none  should  take  an  atom  of  it;  therefore 
he  would  be  loved,  at  all  costs — even  to  Joan 
O'Dwyer. 

If  not  an  insanity,  it  was  a  possession,  so  deep, 
so  strange,  that  to  talk  of  a  power  which  held  and 
spurred  him  on  would  be  true  to  the  letter. 

Was  it  Philip  driving  himself?  then  we  are  to  im- 

17 


258  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

agine  him  suddenly  endowed  with  genius,  his  flesh 
all  eyes  and  wings,  his  inner  man  rapt  to  some 
height  never  before  ascended.  What  he  saw  in  Joan 
was,  to  the  cool  eye  of  reason,  a  beautiful,  childlike 
creature,  very  fair  to  look  upon;  what  he  fancied, 
in  this  kindling  of  all  his  faculties,  those  alone  will 
comprehend  who  have  a  gift  like  his.  It  was  a  tran- 
scendent miracle,  and  never  did  a  poet  excel  him  in 
reading  with  love's  eyes  the  wonder  of  the  world. 

No  verses  did  he  scribble ;  he  could  not  have  spent 
five  minutes  over  the  most  charming  sonnets  that 
were  ever  wreathed  in  roses.  But  he  walked  on  air, 
drank  in  the  sun ;  his  nights  he  passed  in  trampling 
through  the  heather,  if  he  did  not  prefer  an  endless 
meandering  over  the  smooth,  white  sand  of  the 
beach ;  when  morning  broke,  he  went  up  to  the  castle, 
a  great  numbness  in  his  limbs,  the  one  madness  in 
his  heart.  If  not  insane,  possessed ! 

What  defense  had  Joan  against  those  ardors  ?  It 
is  well  ascertained  that  love  can  compel  love,  where 
no  counter-attraction  exists  to  make  a  stand.  Days 
passed;  the  face  with  glowing,  masterful  eyes, 
framed  in  its  fiery  locks,  was  burnt  into  her  memory  ; 
the  figure,  tall  and  proud,  was  always  at  her  side; 
the  voice  pleaded,  though  broken  syllables,  not  sen- 
tences, dropped  from  those  lips  on  fire.  She  had 
long  pitied  him ;  soon  she  was  forgetting  to  pity  her- 


HAWK   OR   EAGLE  259 

self.  The  wound  that  could  not  be  stanched  of  his 
great  shame  gave  to  his  wishes  a  persuasiveness, 
such  as  we  yield  to  when  the  strong  are  struck  down 
and  ask  us  whether  we  are  going  to  forsake  them. 
Pity  not  far  from  love — then  the  terrible  joy  which 
casts  out  pity ;  instead  of  air,  flame,  and  oblivion  of 
all  that  used  to  seem  worth  while.  Lo,  the  god  is 
here,  chasing  the  past  with  golden  arrows. 

Who  saw  them?  More  than  one  pair  of  eyes, 
though  silence  fell  over  their  steps.  It  was  not 
really  so  long,  measured  by  days  and  nights;  but 
when  every  hour  is  quivering  with  bright  gleams, 
the  minutes  stand  out  boldly,  the  torrent  expands 
into  a  sea.  Could  they  have  had  the  world  to  them- 
selves!— and  why  not?  To  all  others  they  spoke 
hastily,  in  passing,  eager  to  get  rid  of  them,  as  the 
poet  scrawls  a  business  letter  and  has  done  with  it. 
All  along  they  never  knew  what  people  said ;  yet,  of 
course,  talk  there  was,  in  secret  channels,  first  one, 
then  another — the  serving  men  and  women  who,  in 
those  times  of  cheap  wages,  "coshered  and  col- 
logued" about  the  Big  House.  And  then — 

IT  was  little  Frank  Hurley,  the  laughing  villain,  that 
told  it,  to  begin  with.  Creeping  on  hands  and  knees 
through  the  brush,  to  lay  snares  for  any  wild  thing, 
rabbit,  hare,  or  bird,  that  he  could  poach,  the  gossoon 


26o  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

perked  up  a  sharp  ear,  an  amused  eye,  and  took  in 
the  meaning  of  certain  tones,  attitudes,  what  not,  as 
the  pair  moved  slowly  in  front  of  his  ambush.  He  had 
the  play  to  himself  half  a  dozen  times,  after  which  he 
shared  his  knowledge  and  his  roast  hare  with  Felim 
O'Riordan.  "We  thought  you  were  to  marry  her 
always,"  said  the  grinning  Frank,  with  a  glance  at 
him  sideways;  "would  I  get  a  willow-branch  ready 
for  you,  Felim  ?" 

The  fisher  lad  took  him  by  the  two  ears,  and  gave 
him  a  shake  which  left  Hurley  breathless.  "If  you 
dar'  say  a  word  to  any  person  but  me."  growled 
O'Riordan,  "I  '11  smather  you.  Swear  now  you  '11 
be  as  dumb  as  Patsy  Regan — if  not,  so  help  me — " 

"I  'm  not  a  balbhan  like  Patsy,"  cried  Frank,  "nor 
blind  nayther,  as  you  've  been — and  you  're  hurting 
me.  But,  big  as  you  are,  here  's  my  advice.  Go  to 
Cathal  this  minute;  tell  him  you  must  marry  Joan: 
and  let  him  ask  Sir  Philip" — smiling  mischievously 
— "to  give  a  fortune  with  her.  Do  that  now." 

"The  hammer  and  sledge  will  be  your  fate,"  an- 
swered his  tall  companion,  thumping  the  lad  as  if 
in  a  mighty  rage ;  but  he  acted  on  the  advice  before 
nightfall.  "Anyway,  I  '11  get  knowledge  wrhat 
they  're  doing,"  he  thought. 

"I  would  n't  require  a  crooked  sixpence  with  the 
cailin,"  he  said,  when  his  business  was  opened  with 


HAWK  OR   EAGLE  261 

the  schoolmaster;  "but,  sure,  't  is  no  compliment 
you  're  asking;  the  whole  country  knows  't  was  you 
that  cured  Sir  Philip  after  the  doctors  giving  him 
up." 

Cathal's  answer  was  prompt.  "If  I  did  that  same, 
I  could  not  take  the  price  of  it,  or  something  would 
happen  to  me.  'Give  all,  sell  none,'  said  the  master 
who  taught  me  my  knowledge.  But,  indeed,  Felim, 
you  're  the  one  boy  that  I  'd  like  Joan  to  marry. 
And  I  '11  face  the  squire,  but  never  a  word  that  I 
cured  him!  'T  would  be  worse  than  swapping 
prayers  for  praties — a  thing  I  could  never  bring  my 
mind  to,  or  maybe  I  'd  be  a  different  man  this  day, 
for  long  ago  I  had  the  offer,  if  I  would  take  it,  from 
ould  Father  Lenihan,  God  rest  him." 

No,  it  should  be  a  simple  matter  of  business. 
"The  one  half  of  my  torment,"  he  said,  with  genuine 
emotion,  next  day  to  Sir  Philip,  as  they  lingered  in 
the  sunshine,  "is  Joan  to  be  without  a  husband  whin 
I  'm  gone.  Had  we  the  bit  of  land  as  well  as  the 
cottage,  Felim  O'Riordan  would  marry  her." 

"But  would  she  marry  him?"  answered  the  bar- 
onet, in  a  blind  access  of  feeling  which  almost  made 
him  brutal,  "that  is  the  question." 

"I  gave  the  boy  my  hand  upon  it,"  said  the  school- 
master, calmly ;  "Joan  is  a  good  daughter  that  never 
contradicted  me  yet.  The  O'Riordans  are  like  our- 


262  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

selves.  She  was  reared  with  them.  Garret  is  no 
worse  than  Felim;  if  the  one  did  n't  suit  her,  the 
other  would." 

"He  is  a  sulky,  cross-built  fellow,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman; "can't  you  wait  awhile?" 

"Sulky,  is  it?  Och,  Sir  Philip,  you  never  saw 
boys  better  tempered.  And  handsome!  No  son 
would  I  wish  but  Felim  was  I  buying  them  at  the 
fair." 

An  obstinate  silence  followed.  The  sun  burnt 
into  Philip's  brain;  he  thought  the  air  was  parched, 
and  began  to  moisten  his  dry  lips,  imitating  the  dog's 
gesture  when  it  feels  wretched.  "I  must  speak  to 
the  agent,"  he  said  at  length,  and  Cathal's  hopes  lost 
their  brilliancy. 

"Mr.  Colegrave,  sir  ?  Och,  he  '11  not  give  a  perch 
of  land  to  a  young  couple.  Often  he  said  the  estate 
should  be  cleared,  but  your  father — may  he  never 
want  prayers ! — would  not  allow  it.  From  yourself 
we  will  get  it  or  not  at  all." 

"The  agent  shall  decide,"  answered  Philip,  evad- 
ing Cathal's  astonished  eyes.  "Wait  and  see — wait 
and  see.  Let  the  young  man  clearly  understand 
that  I  make  no  promise." 

"God's  will  be  done,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
humbly;  "we  are  in  his  holy  hands — and  in  yours." 

"Yes,  in  mine,"  thought  Philip,  ashamed  but  de- 


HAWK  OR   EAGLE  263 

termined.  He  was  not  fighting  his  equal,  and  does 
your  gentleman  parry  a  lout's  quarter-staff  with  a 
battle-ax  ?  Yet,  give  up  Joan  ?  Impossible ! 

"Have  you  dangled  this  bait  before  O'Riordan? 
Does  your  girl  know  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  spaking  for  the  boy,"  said  Cathal,  "but  to 
your  honor  alone.  Till  we  get  the  few  furlongs,  I 
would  n't  vex  her." 

"Quite  right.  There  is  plenty  of  time;  but  re- 
member I  promise  nothing."  The  baronet,  always 
brief  and  peremptory,  had  a  terrible  way  with  him. 
None  of  his  people  but  knew  it.  He  was  most- 
ly silent,  and  a  landlord  who  neither  joked,  nor 
laughed,  nor  drank  heavily,  while  he  hunted  and  shot 
with  the  best  of  them,  left  a  dark  impression,  as  of 
one  whom  it  was  better  not  to  thwart.  This  kind  of 
man  always  has  the  peasants'  good  word ;  if  they  dis- 
like him,  the  feeling  never  passes  their  lips.  Dislike 
Sir  Philip  perhaps  no  one  did ;  but  his  fear  was  upon 
them.  O'Dwyer  took  the  baronet's  unwillingness 
in  the  way  he  took  all  other  misfortunes;  to  resist 
— but  how  could  he  ?  Unless  the  landlord  gave  con- 
sent, there  was  no  bridal  for  Joan. 

She,  unhappy  girl,  was  knitting,  some  distance  off, 
in  the  shade  of  a  great  rock  topped  with  hanging 
bushes.  Her  voice,  subdued  to  a  dreamy  softness, 
went  over  the  lines  of  a  half-remembered  song,  but 


264  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

her  thoughts  had  flitted  far  from  their  meaning;  it 
was  a  lover's  adieu — old  and  artless — 

"  For  what  's  allotted,  it  can't  be  blotted, 
So  farewell,  darling,  I  must  away." 

The  sound  came  to  Philip's  ears  sweet  and  con- 
fused "like  the  buzzing  of  bees  on  a  fine  day,"  then 
he  caught  it  more  distinctly,  and,  instead  of  daunt- 
ing him,  there  was  something  in  the  words  that  put 
this  headstrong  youth  on  his  mettle.  "Be  it  so;  I 
will  try  what  is  allotted  to  us  both,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. And  there  stood  the  one  man  in  all  the  world 
before  Joan  O'Dwyer,  glowing  as  a  sunbeam.  Her 
lips  grew  white,  her  singing  fell  silent. 

How  could  he  bind  this  fair  creature  to  his  will  ? 
Alas !  she  was  already  bound.  As  in  the  fairy-tales  of 
all  nations  it  is  written,  these  two  had  exchanged 
hearts;  he  was  sure  of  her  without  speaking;  the 
air  seemed  to  thrill  to  his  voiceless  demand. 

A  little  wheeling  and  returning,  as  the  plover 
about  its  nest,  away  and  to  it  again;  talk  that  said 
nothing,  but  signified  everything,  not  gay,  not  sad. 
Before  long  he  was  whispering,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her  face  cast  down,  "You  must  never  marry  Felim 
O'Riordan." 

She  looked  up  now,  oh,  how  wistfully !  "Never ;  I 
know  it  well,"  she  answered.  "He  is  here  often ;  my 


t 

HAWK   OR  EAGLE  265 

father  is  fond  of  the  boy,  and  a  good  boy  he  is.  But 
true  for  you,  I  '11  never  put  my  hand  in  his." 

"Why  do  you  look  so  down  when  you  say 
that?"  he  asked,  and  his  breath  went  and  came 
in  sudden  throbs.  Her  eyes  were  inexpressibly 
mournful. 

"Yerra,  who  would  marry  the  like  of  me?"  she 
said,  curling  her  ruddy  lip  with  a  mixture  of  self- 
contempt  and  sorrow. 

"Who  would?"  he  exclaimed,  grasping  the  hand 
she  drew  back.  "I  would."  He  took  the  desperate 
leap.  "As  God  sees  me,  I  will." 

They  were  in  each  other's  arms — these  children  of 
the  woods  and  the  sea,  forgetting — how  easy  to  for- 
get— the  thunder-cloud  which  lay  far  on  the  world's 
edge,  almost  believing  that  its  fire  was  the  light  of 
their  love. 

An  hour  swept  by. 

In  token  of  this  fatal  covenant,  they  bound  them- 
selves by  the  strongest  oaths  never  to  change;  they 
would  not  give  or  take  affection;  Joan  not  from 
Felim,  and  he  from  no  woman,  however  rich  or 
high.  Under  this  frenzy,  which  had  seized  them 
both,  they  did  as  country-folks  do,  exchanged  locks 
of  hair,  dark  and  ruddy,  which  should  never  quit 
them. 

"This  will  be  buried  with  me,"  said  Joan,  kissing 


266  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

the  love-lock  she  had  clipped  from  Philip's  bent 
head. 

"And  this  with  me,"  was  his  cry;  "but  we  will 
keep  the  thing  to  ourselves  yet  awhile.  Your 
father  must  not  know  it." 

Joan  gave  her  consent,  and  so  they  began  to  whirl 
round  in  the  magic  dance. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

VARIOUS    THREADS 

IN  Irish  poetry  "my  love"  and  "my  secret"  are  the 
same  word.  Charmingly  so;  but  here  was  one 
of  those  secrets  known  to  many  that  brew  death- 
dealing  poison  unless  they  are  snatched  off  the  fire. 
Joan  herself  went  to  and  fro  in  a  day-dream,  not 
happy,  nor  looking  for  happiness ;  she  was  within  the 
fairy-hill,  and  a  voice  sounded  in  her  ear,  "Touch  no 
food,  put  from  you  the  bright  drink,  or  you  will 
never  go  back  to  your  people."  When,  in  a  flash, 
the  girl  saw  her  image  up  at  Renmore — its  mistress 
and  Lady  Liscarroll — she  felt  a  sharp  pain  in  her 
side.  "I  'd  look  well  in  my  silks  and  satins,"  was 
the  sarcasm  with  which  she  scourged  vanity.  "My 
lady  Joan,  is  it?  Good  morrow  to  your  lady- 
ship! Now  if  I  whispered  it  to  Nora  O'Sullivan, 
she  'd  choke  laughing.  God  direct  me !  I  '11  surely 
wither  away  and  die.  But  I  have  his  hand  and  word 
to  it,  you  '11  say.  I  have,  indeed,  Nora.  And  I  see 
her  giving  her  head  a  toss.  'There  's  a  hundred 

267 


268  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

twists  in  a  young  man's  heart,'  says  Nora.  What 
made  me  listen  to  him  at  all  ?" 

Joan  could  not  believe,  or  even  trust ;  the  thing  was 
too  great,  as  if  God  had  promised  her  the  sun.  It 
dazzled  her.  Philip  was  there,  to  be  sure,  and  all 
day  long  he  talked  of  love  and  liking;  but  when  he 
was  gone  hope  went  with  him ;  then  she  called  her- 
self "a  branch  that  hangs  down  to  the  stream,  and  its 
blossoms  drop  into  it  one  by  one."  She  took  the 
world's  part  against  this  unequal  match.  "Would  n't 
I  shame  him?" — significantly,  not  in  her  own 
thoughts  did  she  say  "Philip" — "and  I  'd  see  the 
blush  on  his  cheek  at  every  meeting  of  friends.  He 
has  no  right  to  marry  except  a  lady."  Well,  could 
she  answer  the  world  ? 

Philip  did  not  think  of  marrying  yet.  This  de- 
lightful, romantic  play  out  of  doors  was  enough  for 
him.  Without  knowing  it,  he  was  twisting  the  cord 
his  own  way,  beginning  one  of  the  most  dangerous 
and  subtle  of  the  tricks  they  tell  of  Munster  youths, 
who,  with  a  great  air  of  simplicity,  are  sly  as  foxes 
in  love,  business,  and  sport.  "Wine  is  sweet,  its 
price  is  bitter,"  said  Cathal,  rich  in  proverbs.  What 
need  he  be  thinking  of  the  price?  It  is  wonderful 
how  the  man  lingers  out  his  courtship,  while  the 
maid  looks  on  to  marriage.  Here  she  did  not  urge 
the  claim,  being  over-modest,  frightened,  and  even 


VARIOUS  THREADS  269 

sorry  for  Philip.  Probably,  in  her  heart  of  hearts, 
she  could  not  hold  the  vision  to  be  real.  He  would 
be  only  "letting  on,"  after  all.  Something  warned 
her  that  she  must  be  on  her  guard,  if  she  did  but 
know  how,  against  his  innocent  wiles  and  strata- 
gems. For  these  are  the  very  men  that  swear  as 
many  oaths  as  they  speak  words,  yet  afterward  break 
them  in  the  sweet  face  of  Heaven,  and  mean  no 
harm. 

But  "  't  is  what  they  say"  that  carries  good  and 
evil  with  it.  This  pretty  scene  was  far  from  hidden. 
The  O'Sullivans  marked  it,  and  though  neither 
would  be  severe  if  the  girl  did  as  many  a  one,  no 
worse  than  Joan  O'Dwyer,  had  done  before  her,  not 
a  suspicion  that  marriage  could  be  in  question  crossed 
their  minds.  They  thought,  "So  the  master  is  like 
other  young  men,  only  he  fancies  we  don't  see  him." 
No  doubt  they  said  as  much  in  confidence.  Had 
they  caught  the  word  which  terrified  poor  Joan,  yet 
served  as  a  plank  over  this  roaring  torrent,  no 
tongues  would  have  wagged  against  her  so  bitterly 
as  theirs.  But  they  looked  on  with  singular  indiffer- 
ence at  a  mere  love-making. 

Not  so  Felim  the  fisher  lad.  As  time  ran  by,  and 
neither  the  agent  spoke  nor  Sir  Philip,  he  grew  des- 
perate, wasted  away,  lost  his  lively  colors;  a  great 
dread  fell  upon  him.  The  girl,  who  had  never  owned 


270  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

him  as  a  sweetheart,  repelled  his  slight  attempts 
to  establish  some  confidence  between  them.  "She  is 
civil  and  strange  to  me — and  I  her  foster-brother," 
he  thought  in  his  vexation;  but  unless  prepared  to 
take  her  without  a  fortune,  which  he  could  not  do, 
there  was  no  courting  possible.  The  schoolmaster 
set  his  face  against  it.  "Till  we  have  the  farm,"  he 
said,  "my  daughter  is  for  no  man.  I  '11  not  sentence 
ye  both  to  the  pangs  of  poverty.  'T  is  Mr.  Cole- 
grave  must  put  in  the  banns ;  but  strive  to  pull  him 
toward  you,  and  he  '11  snap  and  bite  like  a  dog's  head. 
Patience  is  the  best  hound  we  have  in  the  pack, 
Felim." 

It  seemed  likely  to  be  the  surviving  and  only 
hound.  The  Lord  of  Renmore  has  as  good  as  for- 
gotten O'Riordan;  nor  did  he  mention  in  Mr.  Cole- 
grave's  office  his  name  or  Cathal  O'Dwyer's.  He 
was  in  the  seventh  heaven — let  that  be  what  apology 
it  may.  But  rumor  on  this  side,  and  the  O'Sulli- 
vans  on  that,  were  getting  a  fresh  act  ready;  there 
came  to  Will  Hapgood's  ears  the  most  surprising 
tale — that  his  friend  and  favorite  boatman  had  been 
wanting  to  marry  this  bewitching  damsel ;  that  her 
father  had  consented,  but  the  event  hung  fire,  and,  it 
was  lightly  whispered,  because  of  Philip  Liscarroll. 
He  took  Felim  unawares,  bantered  him  on  his  pale 
cheeks  and  loss  of  interest  in  manly  games,  and  got 


VARIOUS  THREADS  271 

his  version  of  the  story.  "  'T  is  my  belief,  sir," 
concluded  O'Riordan,  "that  the  squire  is  a  very  dark 
man.  Joan  would  n't  be  desaved  by  him  if  he  did  n't 
promise  more  than  he  will  perform.  He  '11  talk  the 
world  of  marrying  her,  and  the  smooth  word  is  all 
she  will  get.  We  seen  that  many  a  time  before, 
though  not  from  him  or  his  father.  I  'd  be  sorry  to 
belie  them." 

Master  Will's  principles  were  easy-going;  and 
as  he  cared  little  about  the  maid,  and  less  about  the 
baronet,  his  interference  could  not  have  been  reck- 
oned upon,  except  in  one  contingency.  Sir  Philip 
was  a  character;  he  never  behaved  like  the  rest  of 
the  world;  suppose  him,  in  this  tangle,  to  undo  the 
knot  in  his  peculiar  way — quixotically — what  would 
come  of  it?  "You  believe  she  may  be  a  fool;  but 
that  he  is  sure  to  be  a  rogue — is  that  it,  Felim?"  he 
said,  slapping  his  young  man  on  the  shoulder.  "He 
would  on  no  account  marry  a  girl  he  wronged." 

"Plaise  God,  she  won't  be  wronged,"  answered 
the  other  in  a  tremulous  but  deeply  earnest  tone. 
"Was  Mr.  Edmund  Liscarroll  at  Renmore,  he  would 
prevent  it,  or  I  don't  know  him." 

"What,  the  cousin  would  cut  in  and  snap  up  the 
prize?  Shall  we  send  him  news  that  his  chieftain 
is  in  love  ?  Eh,  old  man  ?" 

"You  should  not  joke  with  them  things,  sir,"  an- 


272  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

swered  O'Riordan,  gravely;  "we  never  thought  the 
two  Liscarrolls  were  great  with  each  other,  though 
living  under  one  roof.  The  Tanist,  as  we  call  him, 
should  be  looking  some  day  to  get  the  ould  place; 
't  is  n't  likely  Sir  Philip  would  take  kindly  to  his  own 
tombstone,  as  I  may  say.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Edmund 
is  in  all  our  good  books." 

"And  how  comes  he  to  be  this  Joan's  protector? 
Is  he  that  way  given  ?  He  writes  poetry  and  stuff ; 
I  guess  he  would  be  the  mischief  among  the  lasses. 
I  don't  take  to  the  fellow;  but  he  is  not  so  ugly  as 
Sir  Phil." 

"  'Deed  then,  sir,  you  'd  guess  wrong.  He  has 
the  name  of  a  harmless  buachal,  with  his  bits  of 
pomes  and  blackthorn  verses.  But  when  he  used  to 
be  coming  to  the  ould  schoolmaster's,  learning  his 
Latin  and  his  Six  Books — and  the  Irish  they  'd  be 
talking  together — not  as  we  talk,  but  ancient — we 
could  make  nayther  a  fist  nor  a  foot  of  that  same — 
he  'd  be  coaxing  Joan  and  she  him." 

"And  she  him,  as  they  always  do,"  repeated  Will, 
in  high  delight. 

"Well,  we  were  all  gossoons  of  one  age,  and  if  the 
two  of  them  gave  love  to  one  another,  what  harm  in 
it?"  said  the  boatman. 

"Not  a  hap'orth  of  harm,"  replied  the  light-headed 
Will.  "Thank  you,  O'Riordan.  Now  let  us  turn 


VARIOUS  THREADS  273 

this  point.  Land  me  just  below  St.  Brandan's 
Kitchen." 

They  had  been  wasting  the  early  hours,  as  Will 
often  did  now,  under  pretense  of  fishing  in  the  bay 
of  Airgead  Ross,  where  Felim  was  to  wait  until  the 
young  madcap  returned  from  his  expedition  on 
shore.  Its  object  was  perfectly  well  known  to  both 
of  them,  though  never  a  syllable  passed  concerning 
it.  "Don't  be  down-hearted,  man,"  said  his  master, 
as  he  sprang  on  the  beach.  "We  will  rescue  your 
bride,  Edmund  or  no  Edmund.  She  is  too  dainty 
a  morsel  for  such  a  kill-joy  as  Sir  Philip.  Leave  it 
to  me.  Keep  a  sharp  lookout  on  the  doings  at 
O'Dwyer's  cottage;  but  say  nothing  to  the  old  man. 
I  shall  be  here  again  in  two  hours." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  gay  and  jubilant 
he  appeared  when  leaping  into  the  boat  once  more. 
"You  have  fine  news  to-day,  sir,"  said  O'Riordan, 
"or  else  you  been  running,  to  judge  by  your  color." 

"Both,  my  dear  Felim, "he  cried,  giving  the  other's 
hand  a  fierce  grip.  "Wish  me  good  luck — yourself 
too.  Now  home !  Do  you  remember  the  night  we 
were  all  but  drowned — when  Renmore  Castle  fell  in 
as  we  drove  under  the  lee  of  it  ?" 

"Would  I  ever  lose  the  thought  of  it,  sir  ?  Often 
in  my  drames  I  do  be  hearing  the  big  crack  it  gave, 
and  the  lightning  over  it  wakes  me." 

18 


274  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"There  will  be  a  greater  crack  yet;  but  to-day 
pays  for  that  night." 

"And  will  Joan  be  saved  when  it  comes,  sir — on 
whoever  it  comes?" 

"She  will.  Let  me  tell  you  now  what  share  you 
shall  have  in  the  rescue."  He  launched  out  volubly. 
This  young  man,  whose  spirit  a  year  ago  would  have 
been  pronounced  dull,  though  violent,  seemed  to 
have  undergone  the  influence  of  a  loftier  mind.  He 
spoke  according  to  his  cue,  but  admirably,  though 
not  as  one  who  sees  a  crystal  sky  overhead.  There 
were  storms  coming.  The  plan  which  he  unfolded 
as  far  as  he  thought  it  judicious  would  not  have  met 
with  the  moralist's  approbation;  but  he  had  learned 
it  from  one  who  scrupled  at  no  means  which  would 
compass  her  object.  As  for  O'Riordan,  though  but 
a  novice  in  this  world,  he  saw  that  the  quality  had 
ways  of  their  own,  good  or  bad,  which,  like  the  winds 
and  tides,  were  governed  by  unknown  laws.  All  he 
wanted  was  to  get  his  dove  (and  even  if  not  his)  out 
of  the  hawk's  talons.  That  Sir  Philip  could  be  any- 
thing but  a  hawk  to  the  poor  innocent  he  did  not 
credit.  The  specimen  he  judged  by  the  species;  in 
his  own  Shaksperian  language,  the  squire  was  "cat 
after  kind."  Well  they  knew  the  kind  in  those 
parts. 

St.  Brandan's  Kitchen,  from  which  Will  had  re- 


VARIOUS  THREADS  275 

turned  in  such  high  spirits,  was  overgrown  now  with 
flowers,  purple  and  red,  among  its  long  grasses; 
sunlight  sifted  in;  butterflies  darted  like  iridescent 
jewels  or  snowflakes  through  the  vacant  windows; 
and  Lady  Liscarroll,  with  her  shining  hair,  was  no 
less  brilliant  than  they — a  gem  which  had  in  it 
the  glow  of  rich  blood,  of  unextinguished  passion. 
While  her  cavalier  told  the  tale,  himself  amused, 
heedless  where  a  spark  might  fall  and  sting,  she 
remained  immovable,  most  attentive.  "You  put 
in  my  hand  the  thread  I  was  looking  for,"  she 
said  when  he  had  finished;  "a  jesting  matter,  you 
think,  Will  Hapgood!  What  a  great  baby  you 
are!" 

Her  glove  touched  his  cheek,  which  burnt  sud- 
denly. "Well,  is  n't  it  a  game  to  see  your  fine  Philip 
stark  mad?"  he  answered,  laughing,  but  not  at  his 
ease.  "There  's  no  doubt  about  the  madness.  Crazy, 
if  ever  man  was !" 

"Better  fight  shy  of  him,  then.  I  know  the  Lis- 
carroll craze — to  my  cost.  Let  me  think  awhile. 
You  say  Edmund  had  a  fancy  for  this  girl." 

"Felim  says  so.  That  makes  the  play  up ;  we  can 
set  the  whole  pack  tearing.  But  I'm  not  to  laugh? 
How  can  I  help  it?" 

"You  may  laugh  the  wrong  side  of  your  rnouth, 
Will.  If  my  son  has  made  up  his  mind  to  have  Joan 


276  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

— she  is  a  wonderful  girl,  much  more  than  pretty — 
angels  and  saints  won't  stand  in  his  way." 

"The  other  gentry  might,  though,"  said  he,  with 
a  grin.  ''Shall  we  call  them  up?" 

"One  thing  is  clear,"  pursued  Lady  Liscarroll, 
"he  must  not  marry  her." 

"My  sister  used  to  hunt  on  that  trail,"  said  the 
young  man,  "but  we  are  so  devilish  poor,  and  Philip 
is  no  better  off.  Besides,  he  does  n't  throw  her  a 
look  now.  Julia  must  make  a  meal  of  her  own  heart, 
poor  wench." 

"You  know  I  am  determined  he  shall  marry  here," 
said  the  lady,  indicating  Silverwood;  "from  this 
pivot  we  must  work  out  our  plan." 

"Edmund  is  the  favorite;  I  back  him  against  the 
field,"  said  Will. 

"Yes,  but  not  against  me.  Wait,  and  let  me  fol- 
low this  up.  Edmund  to  be  disposed  of  somehow — 
Philip  to  come  here — Joan  O'Dwyer — " 

"Felim  to  get  her  if  he  can,  Lucifer  if  he  can't. 
But  you  are  leaving  me  out,  my  dear  lady." 

"Be  quiet,"  she  said,  and  smiled.  A  heavy 
thought  nevertheless  clouded  her  expression.  "After 
all,"  she  sighed,  "no  one  can  accuse  me  of  breaking 
my  promise.  As  long  as  Joan  was  under  my  care, 
she  fell  neither  into  mischief  nor  danger.  She  must 
look  to  herself.  Only  a  double-dyed  idiot  would  ex- 
pect marriage  from  a  gentleman." 


VARIOUS  THREADS  277 

"She  will  go  the  way  her  mother  went" — Will 
took  up  the  story  now.  "Young  Macklin,  you  re- 
member ?  Of  course  there  was  a  difference ;  Macklin 
could  n't  marry  another  man's  wife."  There  his 
chatter  was  arrested  by  the  lady's  intense  paleness 
and  her  sudden  half-fainting  against  the  chapel  wall. 
"Good  heavens !  what  has  come  over  you  ?"  he  cried, 
endeavoring  to  support  her ;  but  she  waved  him  back, 
and  with  a  strong  effort  recovered. 

"I  always  said  you  were  a  fool,"  she  exclaimed 
sharply;  "how  can  you  talk  so  to  me — to  me,  Will 
Hapgood?" 

"I  humbly  beg  your  pardon,"  was  the  crestfallen 
reply.  "But  let  the  girl  go  to  blazes — that  's  all  I 
meant.  She  is  not  to  spoil  your  sport." 

"She  shall  not,  depend  upon  it.  At  the  worst,  her 
fisherman,  if  he  gets  a  few  acres,  will  be  glad  to 
compound,  and  Joan  has  plenty  of  sense — anyhow, 
Philip  is  bespoke.  That  settles  it.  Now  the  first 
step — " 

After  much  musing  and  beating  with  her  hand 
upon  the  broken  window-sill,  as  if  she  counted  the 
numbers  in  some  complicated  puzzle,  the  lady  re- 
sumed. "First,  I  am  to  be  ill.  These  meetings  end 
for  some  time." 

With  clearness,  yet  with  subtlety,  she  drew  the 
fine  threads  of  her  cobweb  out  before  him.  a  crossing 
of  lines  in  which  all  were  to  be  entangled  but  them- 


278  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

selves.  "Is  it  not  well  contrived?"  she  asked  ex- 
ultingly,  when  the  meshes  had  been  hung  up  in  his 
sight. 

"You  are  a  witch,"  answered  Hapgood,  enthusi- 
astic, but  keen  on  his  own  purpose.  "If  they  all 
behave  like  saints,  caught  they  are  still ;  and  if  like 
sinners,  God  help  them !  But,"  coming  up  boldly  to 
where,  she  stood,  "as  you  hold  the  threads,  I  hold 
you." 

"What  mad  speech  is  this?"  she  said  dauntlessly. 
"Do  you  intend  to  turn  informer  ?" 

His  eyes  were  very  bright.  "Not  unless  you  com- 
pel me  to.  I  do  intend,  though,  to  have  my  price, 
and  from  you.  The  day  Philip's  marriage  comes 
off  with  Miss  O'Connor,  I  will  claim  it.  You  are 
a  free  woman,  are  n't  you?  Now  pledge  me  your 
sacred  word  that  you  will  be  my  wife  when  Airgead 
Ross  falls  to  Renmore." 

"I  thought  you  said  Philip  was  out  of  his  mind," 
she  answered,  mocking  him,  yet  her  color  betrayed 
some  emotion.  "What  would  your  mother  say? 
She  is  about  my  age." 

"That  laugh  becomes  you  well,"  said  Hapgood, 
not  to  be  fobbed  off  in  this  fashion.  "I  know  your 
age,  knew  it  before  you  spoke.  Now  choose  to 
promise  me,  or  have  this  talk  carried  in  six  hours 
to  your  son.  You  see  I  play  him  off  against  my 


VARIOUS  THREADS  279 

mother.  Why  did  you  give  me  this  chain  ?  I  have 
worn  it  ever  since,"  pulling  out  the  thin  gold  links 
from  the  breast  of  his  jacket.  "Mad  you  call  me,  as 
if  that  would  put  me  to  the  blush !  I  talk — time  flies 
— speak,  or  I  tell  Sir  Philip." 

In  her  countenance  a  strange  terror  showed  itself. 
"There  was  Walter,  then  Henry,"  she  muttered,  re- 
flecting on  a  thousand  past  scenes,  "now  this  wild 
slip  of  a  youth,  sprung  up  across  my  path  when  I  did 
not  ask  for  him."  Yet  she  triumphed  in  the  fasci- 
nation which  brought  the  lad  to  her  feet  even  while 
she  could  have  pitied  his  folly  in  challenging  the 
future.  His  rude  touch  was  endangering  the  web 
she  had  craftily  woven — such  an  obstinate,  super- 
fluous passion  when  it  took  this  form.  "If  you  are 
determined  not  to  be  generous,"  she  began. 

"Don't  expect  it  of  me,"  replied  Will.  "I  am 
master  now;  generosity  is  the  last  thing  I  think  of." 

"You  are  a  fine,  exasperating  fellow,"  she  said, 
still  at  heart  terror-stricken.  "If  I  must,  I  must; 
but  we  shall  live  to  repent  it." 

"Give  me  your  hand,  Eleanor,"  he  said,  calling  her 
for  the  first  time  by  her  name.  "God  do  so  and  so 
to  me — and  more  also — if  I  let  this  hand  loose  until 
my  own  falls  shattered  from  the  wrist.  What  say 
you?" 

Now  they  were  handfast  in  the  old  fatal  thral- 


28o  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

dom.  "I  will  not  let  yours  drop,  yet  if  you  pull  it 
away  I  shall  not  hold  you  guilty,"  she  said  with  a 
faint  smile,  her  spirit  sinking. 

"Never,"  he  said.  "And  now,  Edmund  and 
Philip,  my  lads,  look  to  your  guard.  We  are  going 
to  take  you  in  the  rear." 

This  interview  it  was  which  sent  him  away  like  a 
conqueror;  but  Lady  Liscarroll,  who  had  witnessed 
battles,  knew  the  day  was  dawning  in  a  crimson 
cloud. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IMPERIAL    AUGUST 

OF  one  born  under  a  happy  star  it  has  been  said, 
"the  very  dice  obey  him,"  but  Philip  was  not 
the  man.  No  sudden  alarm  startled  him  into  glanc- 
ing toward  the  clock,  where  his  chance  was  running 
out.  Music,  the  moody  food  of  love,  had  so  deaf- 
ened him  to  what  people  might  whisper  that  every 
morning  he  slipped  into  his  secret  garden,  from 
which  even  Lady  Liscarroll  appeared  a  figure  far 
off,  and  almost  charmed  into  quietness.  Against 
him,  therefore,  the  dice,  loaded  when  he  looked 
away,  could  not  choose  but  fall. 

On  an  afternoon  about  the  end  of  July  came  a 
note,  brief  and  colorless,  from  Edmund,  to  say  he 
should  be  leaving  Altamira  immediately,  and  hoped 
to  reach  home  within  the  next  three  days. 

"My  honeymoon  is  over,"  thought  Philip,  tearing 
the  paper  to  shreds.  "How  the  devil  comes  it  that 
I  can't  have  my  house  to  myself?" 

The  cry  was  instinctive,  not  grudging ;  it  betrayed 

a  deep  wound  as  well  as  dread  of  the  surgeon's  knife. 

281 


282  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

With  Edmund  enter  "the  world,  a  hoary  cynic,"  and 
"conscience,  a  bit  of  steel  in  his  grasp" — neither 
backward  at  cutting  through  nerve  and  sinew. 
Powers  of  heaven  would  league  with  demons  from 
hell  to  put  them  asunder.  But  could  they  not 
marry  at  once  ?  A  bold  stroke — but  a  final !  Re- 
pentance would  be  out  of  court  then.  Yes,  but 
Philip,  in  the  unsteady  motions  of  his  brain,  saw  his 
wild  rose  transplanted,  withering  under  the  sharp 
east  wind — scorn  and  sneers,  and  lonely  days  killing 
her;  old  Cathal  shambling  not  quite  sober  about 
Renmore — ridicule  sketching  the  two  mothers  of 
them,  a  scandalous  pair — himself  stabbed  as  with 
icicles.  Or  could  he  not  marry  and  take  wing? — but 
that  was  cowardice.  No,  he  must  school  Joan,  for 
the  present,  to  play  one  scene  of  excellent  dissem- 
bling ;  perhaps  his  cousin,  a  singer  of  amorous  songs, 
would  come  over  to  their  side.  Edmund  was,  no 
doubt,  a  nature  too  abstruse  for  his  comprehension ; 
or  perhaps  too  airy  and  volatile  ?  In  their  snatches 
of  argument  he  seemed  hard ;  if  Philip  was  the  ham- 
mer, his  cousin  was  the  anvil,  and  bore  no  marks  of 
the  assault. 

"If  he  would  stand  by  me,  we  two  could  face  the 
worst.  But  will  he?  Does  n't  the  man  keep  his 
poetry  for  hot-pressed  vellum — two  hundred  and 
forty  sheets  to  the  half-ream?" 


IMPERIAL  AUGUST  283 

So  he  reasoned,  not  altogether  selfishly.  The 
danger  pressing  close,  he  might  have  taken  Edmund 
into  his  confidence,  had  not  the  ivory  cubes  rattled 
in  his  ears  a  second  time.  On  the  day  his  cousin 
was  expected,  Yegor,  the  factotum  at  Airgead  Ross, 
came  riding  over  with  a  note  from  his  mistress,  in 
terms  of  singular  agitation.  Lady  Liscarroll  was 
ill,  perhaps  seriously — would  he  return  with  the 
messenger?  His  mother  felt  unable  to  write.  She 
could  not  leave  her  room,  and  had  sent  for  Dr. 
Driscoll,  whose  wife  would  undertake  the  nursing 
that  might  be  required. 

His  heart  knocked  against  his  ribs  with  a  sick 
sorrow;  was  it  bad  news  or  good?  Was  the  long 
task  ending  that  had  been  too  much  for  him? 
Would  his  mother  die  ?  What  a  horrid  prayer  was 
that  he  put  up  to  the  dark  powers  in  whose  chain 
he  lay  fettered?  A  kind  of  matricide!  He  could 
not  think  of  her  in  pain  of  the  body  without  com- 
passion; cruelty  was  most  foreign  to  his  feeling, 
always  had  been;  but  the  sight  of  her  in  a  shroud, 
he  confessed  and  loathed  himself  for  it,  would  bring 
everlasting  peace.  Let  her  die  without  anguish — 
soon — after  he  had  pardoned  her  in  his  father's 
name.  Aye,  it  was  best. 

Yegor  could  tell  him  little  except  that  the  lady 
seemed  to  pass  from  one  fainting  fit  into  another. 


284  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

He  had  left  her  unconscious.  There  was  no  time  to 
look  in  at  O'Dwyer's  cottage,  or  take  leave  of  Joan; 
she  would  hear  that  he  was  gone  to  Silverwood; 
that  his  mother  had  sent  for  him;  but  perhaps  she 
would  have  got  a  like  message  ?  Or  no,  Mrs.  Dris- 
coll  did  not  want  assistance  on  Joan's  terms.  This 
name,  coupled  with  the  doctor's,  sounded  a  death- 
knell — but  to  whom?  The  raven  and  the  screech- 
owl  were  flying  round  that  house,  called  thither  by 
the  dying  patient.  An  obscure  intimation  that  the 
illness  had  some  enigmatic  character  floated  up  to 
his  mind's  surface,  and  disappeared.  It  must  have 
been  very  sudden.  He  reproached  himself  that  his 
visits  during  the  last  month  were  less  frequent  than 
he  had  intended.  "She  has  no  one  but  me,  after  all," 
he  thought,  "and  I  have  neglected  her." 

On  arriving  he  found  Dr.  Driscoll  installed,  busy 
and  triumphant.  The  lady's  maid  was  in  attendance 
on  the  sick-chamber,  but  could  let  no  one  pass. 

"I  had  a  right  to  be  called  in  many  months  ago," 
said  the  doctor,  huskily,  breathing  out  wrath  and 
spirits ;  "her  ladyship  is  in  a  rapid  decline." 

"Good  God !  A  decline,  doctor  ?  At  her  time  of 
life,  and  in  this  pure  air?  She  appeared  in  perfect 
health;  I  remarked  her  high  color  at  our  last 
meeting." 

"When  was  that,  Sir  Philip?"  inquired  Driscoll, 


IMPERIAL  AUGUST  285 

rudely;  "a  week  since?  a  fortnight?  maybe  it  was 
a  month  ?" 

"Whenever  it  was,"  said  Sir  Philip,  stung  to  the 
quick,  "my  mother  looked  the  picture  of  health."  At 
which  the  surgeon  groaned. 

"It  was  but  a  picture,  my  dear  sir;  a  deceptive 
blush — the  hectic  hue  of  consumption.  While  im- 
prisoned at  Renmore — " 

"What  is  that  you  say?"  cried  the  baronet,  in  a 
fury;  "measure  your  language,  sir!" 

"I  say  imprisoned,"  was  the  cool  retort;  "your 
mother  had  little  fresh  air,  no  exercise,  not  a  friend 
about  her;  you  see  the  consequence.  I  don't  hope 
for  her  recovery." 

All  else  was  forgotten  in  this  news.  "She  is  dy- 
ing, then?"  said  her  son,  with  an  overpowering  sense 
of  grief,  almost  of  remorse.  "I  will  see  her  this 
instant." 

But  Driscoll  put  his  hand  on  the  lock.  "I  never 
said  she  was  at  the  last  gasp.  Hours,  even  days, 
may  pass  before  the  critical  time  is  upon  Lady  Lis- 
carroll.  She  has  her  senses,  though  greatly  en- 
feebled; but  she  would  do  well  to  be  left  to  sleep. 
What  I  have  to  tell  you,  sir,  is  that,  as  a  son,  you 
should  stay  within  call,  night  and  day,  until  we  see 
what  turn  the  sickness  will  take.  It  will  be  a  com- 
fort and  a  vital  support  to  the  poor  lady;  and  she 


286  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

begged  and  prayed  me  to  ask  the  favor  from  you. 
Yes,  indeed,  favor  was  her  very  word." 

"For  God's  sake,  send  in  to  my  mother ;  tell  her  I 
will  not  go  away,"  cried  Philip,  agonizing.  "Let 
Mrs.  Driscoll  say  so.  I  can  be  put  up  somewhere 
about  the  place,  I  suppose." 

"That  Russian  spalpeen  they  call  Yegor  has  a 
nice  snug  house — a  dale  too  good  for  the  likes  of 
him,"  answered  Driscoll,  "convenient  to  the  man- 
sion. Miss  O'Connor  is  out  there  now  seeing  it  put 
to  rights  for  you." 

"But  as  soon  as  I  can  speak  to  Lady  Liscarroll, 
you  will  allow  me?"  said  Philip.  "Otherwise,  I 
shall  exercise  my  authority,  doctor,  and  send  for  my 
own  physician." 

"On  my  word  and  honor  you  will  be  the  first  after 
myself,"  said  Driscoll.  "As  long  as  she  could  she 
kept  it  from  you,  and  great  was  her  suffering — the 
mind  more  than  the  body,  bad  as  that  was.  I  never 
saw  a  woman  so  spirited;  but  now  she  is  down  en- 
tirely; a  feather's  weight  would  finish  her." 

MEANWHILE,  as  the  master's  wheels  hurried  from 
Renmore,  his  cousin's  might  be  heard  approaching. 
The  day  shone  splendidly,  for  it  was  imperial  Au- 
gust, clad  in  gold  tissue  woven  of  clear  sunbeams; 
and  as  the  poet  drove  through  the  land,  he  thought 


IMPERIAL  AUGUST  287 

himself  traveling  in  light,  so  radiant  were  the  skies, 
so  free  from  every  speck  of  damp  was  the  air. 
Happy,  therefore,  according  to  the  law  of  winged 
creatures?  Ah,  no — this  translucent  atmosphere 
hid  in  its  brightness  death.  For  three  days  Edmund 
had  been  moving  southward;  he  was  delayed  by  an 
incident  most  singular  and  unforeseen  at  Kilmallock, 
where  he  had  turned  aside  to  dine  in  the  mansion- 
house  of  the  Sarsfields  with  some  old  acquaintance; 
and,  under  such  a  heaven  as  he  never  had  beheld, 
the  fire  of  a  yellow  wine  poured  out  to  its  extreme 
bounds — he  sat  behind  the  horses,  too  broken  for 
words,  stupefied  as  with  laudanum.  What  did  his 
eyes  announce  that  had  such  terror  in  it  ?  This,  and 
this  only — imperial  August,  in  cloth  of  gold,  blazing 
with  the  summer  fires,  was — he  sickened  in  its  pres- 
ence— the  Famine ! 

For  beneath  an  enchanted  sky,  while  the  winds 
blew  warm,  and  it  seemed  that  every  flower  should 
glow  with  beauty,  every  herb  yield  a  sweet  savor, 
up  from  the  fields  on  both  sides  came  to  his  nostrils 
the  stench  of  the  blight,  a  vivid,  yet  intangible  pu- 
trescence, that  left  the  air  transparent,  but  loaded  the 
breeze  with  horror.  Mile  after  mile,  behind  and 
before,  the  plague  spread  out,  reveled  in  the  crops 
which  stood  luxuriating  amid  their  leaves,  and  made 
the  thousands  of  acres — the  dark-green  vegetation 


288  THE  WIZARD'S  KNOT 

of  a  week  ago — one  mighty  marsh.  A  foul  odor  of 
decay,  unmistakable,  indescribable,  as  of  heaps  al- 
ready rotting.  It  was  not  a  patch  of  leprosy  here 
and  there,  not  a  field  blasted  by  the  side  of  one  that 
flourished;  the  whole  world,  far  as  he  could  see, 
fast  as  he  could  travel,  was  an  infection,  sparing, 
strangely  enough,  the  occasional  perch  of  oats  or 
barley,  as  these  rose  and  floated  on  their  stalks  with 
the  puffs  of  wind,  among  the  leagues  and  leagues  of 
potatoes,  doomed,  like  the  people  that  had  sown  and 
tended  them,  to  wither  away. 

The  heavy,  rich,  maleficent  breath  swept  up  to 
him,  as  off  a  battle-field.  He  had  tasted  it  with  loath- 
ing the  year  before ;  too  well  he  knew  it ;  and,  as  im- 
agination fled  forward,  the  harbinger  of  famine, 
fever,  death,  in  shapes  beyond  counting,  but  each  of 
them  ghastlier  than  its  fellow,  tears  ran  down  his 
cheeks.  That  a  whole  nation  should  be  laid  waste, 
not  at  the  trampling  of  wars,  or  in  a  struggle  for 
some  high  banner  raised  over  them,  but  because  a 
miserable,  weed-like  thing  had  failed!  In  the  con- 
trast between  that  smile  of  the  heavens  and  that 
stricken  earth  he  felt  there  was  an  awful  mockery, 
as  at  a  crime,  no  less  foul  than  contemptible,  now  to 
meet  its  reward  in  the  face  of  the  sun.  These  were 
God's  tokens  of  displeasure  upon  them.  He  wept 
and  could  think  nothing  but  this  thought :  "We  have 


IMPERIAL  AUGUST  289 

broken  some  law  of  life,  which  now  stoops  to  break 
us.  In  what  have  our  fathers  sinned?  And  we 
after  them  ?" 

More  than  once  the  car  in  which  he  drove  was 
stopped  by  Edmund's  desire,  and  he  leaped  down  to 
walk  among  the  decaying  plants,  lush  with  their  un- 
wholesome abundance.  Everywhere  he  scented  an 
open  grave.  At  intervals  he  stepped  close  to  the 
crouching  forms  of  women  with  shawls  thrown  over 
their  heads,  some  of  them  crying  with  a  long,  child- 
ish lament,  the  hardly  intelligible  words  making  a 
litany  of  despair,  always  the  same,  always  unavail- 
ing. Others  sat  motionless,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the 
landscape,  as  if  they  saw  hunger  and  disease  coming 
toward  them  with  quickening  strides.  These  silent 
mourners  were  the  terror  itself;  and,  as  Edmund 
passed,  the  looks  which  they  exchanged  with  him  set 
up  a  nausea  in  his  mouth,  compelling  him  to  spit 
as  if  it  were  poison.  To  be  so  resigned! — could 
human  nature  fall  into  a  swoon  at  the  mere  wind 
and  rumor  of  calamity,  struck  by  a  horrible  enchant- 
ment ?  He  did  not  know  that  it  was  stealing  on  him 
as  well ;  that  his  own  class,  haughty  and  arrogant  in 
earlier  days,  but  brainless,  improvident,  unused  to 
look  things  in  the  face,  would  succumb  to  this  panic 
fear,  and  sink,  like  the  peasant,  beneath  it.  His  eyes 
were  already  taken;  his  heart  fluttered.  When  the 

19 


290  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

country  still  showed  its  festering  heaps,  one  desire 
laid  hold  of  him,  to  rush  on  and  on,  until  he  could  get 
away  from  the  plague,  and  come  to  a  land  where 
its  vile  odor  would  not  stifle  him. 

It  was  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  that  he  turned 
into  the  demesne  of  Renmore,  which  as  yet  seemed 
free  from  the  blight.  Another  trouble  began  to 
occupy  his  thoughts,  or,  rather,  it  insisted  on  taking 
the  foreground,  out  of  which  this  new  misfortune 
had  chased  it.  He  inquired  after  Philip  at  once,  and 
was  told  that  a  message  from  Silverwood,  arriving 
not  many  hours  ago,  had  called  him  to  Lady  Lis- 
carroll,  who  was  suddenly  taken  ill.  "Thank  God !" 
exclaimed  Edmund.  The  steward  gave  him  an 
amazed  look,  but  went  off  in  silence,  thinking,  "That 
fellow  would  ate  her  without  salt,  and  small  blame 
to  him." 

But  her  nephew  was  not  concerned  about  the  lady 
just  then.  Philip's  absence  gave  him  the  breathing 
space  he  wanted.  He  despatched  a  line  to  Airgead 
Ross,  making  old  Cathal  his  messenger,  with  orders 
to  stay  the  night  unless  some  accident  should  oblige 
him  to  return  immediately.  "I  shall  get  to-morrow 
clear,"  he  argued.  "When  the  schoolmaster  is 
away" — he  smiled  bitterly  at  the  nursery  jingle. 
"Anyhow,  I  shall  see  Joan  face  to  face,  and,  let  her 


IMPERIAL  AUGUST  291 

talk  what  she  will  with  her  lips,  her  looks  will  not 
deceive  me." 

Pacing  the  great  hall,  after  his  lonely  dinner,  he 
tried  to  map  out  the  situation.  In  his  pocket  lay  a 
dirty  piece  of  ill-written  paper,  how  conveyed  to  him 
in  Galway  he  could  not  guess — find  out,  if  possible, 
he  must — the  rude,  ungrammatical  terms  of  which 
he  knew  by  heart,  having  studied  them  until  his  head 
went  round.  They  did  not  mince  matters.  Philip 
was  a  tempter,  if  not  a  villain ;  the  schoolmaster's 
daughter  would  soon  be  hunted  out  of  the  parish ;  it 
was  time  Edmund  came  between  her  and  destruction, 
if  he  was  ever  fond  of  Joan  O'Dwyer.  "What  does 
the  thief  who  wrote  it  mean  by  that?"  he  asked  him- 
self. "Or  has  some  woman  her  hand  in  it?  But 
there  's  no  woman  about  the  place  except  Nora 
O'Sullivan,  and  she  would  n't  be  jealous  of  poor 
Joan."  Might  it  all  be  a  lie?  He  began  to  piece  to- 
gether this  and  that,  Philip's  ways  and  the  world's 
way,  little  things  which  were  either  of  no  conse- 
quence or  danger-signals;  infinite  conjecture,  and 
the  detestable  anonymous  scrawl,  firing  possibilities 
like  a  match.  At  length  he  came  to  a  series  of  con- 
clusions. 

"Suppose  Philip  slandered  in  this  rag  of  a  letter  ? 
I  speak ;  naturally  he  blazes  up — the  thing  admits  of 


292 


THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 


no  apology — and,  for  me,  good-by  to  Renmore. 
Impossible  that  we  should  live  under  one  roof  when 
I  have  flung  a  tumbler  of  dirty  water  in  his  face. 
How  is  that,  Edmund  Liscarroll  ? 

"But  he  is  not  innocent,  and  I  come  in  to  the  cue 
of  Old  Morality,  late  and  smug,  with  my  sermon- 
izing? How  then?  He  would  n't,  could  n't  marry 
a  girl  out  of  his  own  village — daughter  of  my  friend, 
Cathal !  Should  he  ?  And  I  recommend  him  to  do 
it?  No,  he  will  never  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to 
me.  The  end  as  before.  Edmund,  there  is  your 
road,  follow  it. 

"I  burn  the  informer's  scrap,  wink  hard,  say  no 
more  than  I  did  in  his  mother's  case,  where  I  warned 
him  and  sat  still.  The  devil  drives;  we  have  all 
taken  seats  in  his  car;  Joan  tumbles  out,  the  wheels 
go  over  her,  and  we  wash  them  at  the  journey's  end. 
Who  will  be  the  assassin?  Philip — the  driver — or 
myself?  Let  me  see." 

At  this  point  Edmund  was  lost  in  his  reflections. 
The  hall  grew  dark,  and  still  he  paced  it  with  slow 
steps.  "So  far  as  I  can  judge,"  he  thought,  after  a 
long  half-hour,  "I  may  risk  Joan's  life — she  will 
surely  die  if  her  innocence  takes  a  stain — I  have  not 
watched  her  these  ten  years  to  doubt  it — or  I  put  my 
own  happiness — my  everything,  perhaps — to  the 
hazard.  She  or  I — which  is  it  to  be  ?  A  charming 


IMPERIAL   AUGUST  293 

situation,  if  I  had  a  poem  in  hand !  But  the  poetry, 
this  time,  will  be  carved  in  flesh  and  blood — acted, 
not  scrawled.  Were  I  in  love  with  the  creature! 
What  does  he,  or  she,  mean  by  saying  I  was  fond  of 
Joan?  I  am  not;  all  the  same,  I  will  get  her  away 
from  Sir  Phil — and  what  must  be,  must  be.  A 
night's  rest — then  up  goes  the  curtain." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    COUSINS 

A  STEP  along  the  gravel,  where  it  is  loosely 
flung  aside  by  the  Lonndubh,  and  any  ear  but 
Joan's  might  have  signaled  "Philip,"  as  she  sat 
watching.  But  it  was  not  he — the  quick,  light  tread 
announced  some  one  more  impetuous;  in  it  sounded 
less  of  the  musing  footfall  that  deep  passion  loves. 
She  rose  up  to  salute  Edmund,  whose  eye,  looking 
for  change  in  the  girl's  features,  discovered  a  pale 
anxiety,  a  thought  overshadowing  the  brow  with  its 
wavy  dark  hair.  Had  he  not  been  forewarned, 
doubtful  it  is  whether  he  would  have  seen.  The 
clue  is  everything. 

Like  her  lover,  Joan  was  saying  under  her  breath, 
"The  mi  na  media  is  past  with  me,"  at  sight  of  this 
once  welcome  friend;  so  truly  is  love  the  mother 
of  strife.  Her  honeymoon  came  before  the  wed- 
ding-day, as  she  dreamt,  when  he  began  talking 
with  his  old  kindness,  but,  as  an  Irish  gentle- 
man knows  how  to  do,  in  the  tone  of  command 

habitual  to  his  class.     He  soon  mentioned  Philip, 

294 


THE   COUSINS  295 

and  the  poor  thing  winced  ever  so  little ;  he  followed 
up  the  stroke  adroitly ;  brought  in  Lady  Liscarroll's 
illness,  of  which,  by  a  passing  messenger,  some  wild 
and  distorted  account  had  reached  him  in  the  morn- 
ing. "No  one  would  wish  her  to  get  well,"  he  con- 
cluded, "not  even  you,  Joan.  When  the  breath  is 
out  of  her  body  my  cousin  will  be  free  to  take  a  wife, 
and  live  happy  ever  after." 

"He  deserves  no  less,"  she  answered  at  random, 
looking  away. 

"And  who  do  you  think  he  would  marry,  now? 
They  say  he  is  fond  of  a  gossip  with  your  father — I 
am  the  same,  myself — and  seldom  a  day  passes  that 
he  is  not  coming  this  way.  Maybe  you  'd  hear  him 
let  slip  the  name  of  some  great  lady  he  has  in  his 
eye." 

"I  don't  be  listening  to  them,"  said  Joan.  "Talk 
is  like  the  wind  that  comes  and  goes." 

"True  for  you,  my  girl.  But  did  you  never  catch 
up  out  of  it  the  name — now  for  a  wager  would  it  be 
any  one  not  far  from«us?" — she  flashed  a  strange 
look  at  him,  and  had  to  keep  down  a  cry — "if  it  was 
Miss  O'Connor,  you  could  n't  but  remark  it." 

"If  I  hear,  I  don't  heed.  Sure  it  was  always  said 
yourself,  Mr.  Edmund,  would  be  looking  to  get  Miss 
O'Connor." 

Now  it  was  the  poet's  turn  to  feel  hot  and  cold. 


296  THE  WIZARD'S  KNOT 

"We  won't  recite  the  'wooings'  of  Edmund,  but  of 
Philip,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh,  though  not  so 
soon  as  he  could  have  wished.  "The  long  and  the 
short  of  it  is,  my  dear  Joan,  that  Sir  Phil  is  now  at 
Airgead  Ross,  and  Miss  O'Connor  will  be  as  kind  to 
the  son — " 

"She  will  not,"  cried  the  girl,  overcome  by  this 
skilful  torture.  "Why  would  she  lave  you  for  him  ? 
My  father  often  said  you  had  only  to  rise  your  hand, 
she  would  follow  you.  I  could  swear  to  it  myself 
too." 

"But  my  cousin  has  a  better  right,"  said  he. 
"Troth  he  has,  Joan.  And  if  he  stays  long  over 
there,  or  his  mother  was  to  die  in  the  place,  it  is 
my  conviction  they  would  make  a  match  of  it,  un- 
less"— an  idea  seeming  to  pluck  at  his  sleeve — "un- 
less he  was  bound  before  to  some  other  girl.  But 
that  is  nonsense  entirely." 

"I  could  n't  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Joan,  who  had  been 
erect  all  this  time,  in  a  whirl  of  confusion  and  fear. 
She  had  just  found  these  words,  but  her  purse  was 
empty  if  he  demanded  more  of  the  kind.  "I  '11  go  in 
now,"  she  said  feebly. 

"Don't  hurry  yet,  my  dear  child ;  I  have  a  thing  to 
ask."  The  young  man  barred  her  escape.  "Is  Sir 
Philip  free  or  not  ?  Tell  me  that." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  himself?"  she  demanded  in 


THE   COUSINS  297 

turn,  fierce  as  a  falcon  and  with  as  bright  an  eye. 
"Ask  him,  if  you  dar' — not,  not  me." 

"My  intention  is  to  do  so  when  he  comes  home," 
said  the  other,  touched  by  her  growing  distress.  "I 
thought  you  might  know,  that  is  all.  But,  Joan," 
he  continued  mildly,  "should  you  be  acquainted  with 
a  girl — maybe  of  your  own  age,  I  won't  say  as  good- 
looking — that  any  gentleman  about  here  is  courting 
— 't  is  a  way  with  some  of  them — do  you  give  her 
good  advice." 

"What  advice  would  I  give  her?"  was  the  smoth- 
ered question. 

"Say  that  young  men  are  dangerous  beasts,  wolves 
in  sheep's  clothing,  full  of  soft  talk  and  roguery; 
tell  her  not  to  trust  them  farther  than  she  can  throw 
them.  Will  you  do  that,  Joan?" 

"Do  it  yourself;  I  never  will,"  she  replied,  but  the 
heart  died  within  her.  "What  kind  of  speech  is  this 
you  're  putting  on  me  ?" 

"To  that  girl  I  wish  luck  and  happiness,"  said 
Edmund,  dropping  into  the  native  tongue,  "and  she 
should  know  it.  Let  her  leave  the  gentlefolks  to 
themselves,  but,  above  all,  the  boys  of  them.  When 
the  hounds  pull  the  hare  in  pieces,  would  n't  you  pity 
her,  Joan?  That  is  my  last  word  to  the  girl;  and 
now  I  hand  her  to  you." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  got  by  talking  with  a 


298  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

creature  so  racked;  she  would  not  confide  in  him; 
but  every  syllable  bore  unsuspecting  witness  to  the 
letter  in  his  pocket.  The  hare  was  fleeing,  the 
hounds  in  full  cry,  no  musical  sound  as  he  walked 
through  the  woods  of  Renmore,  his  talk  being  ended. 

He  looked  up  after  a  while,  and  saw  on  the  fair 
sands  a  young  fisherman  drying  his  nets  by  the  sea. 
"I  wonder  would  Felim  be  spying  on  this  pretty, 
tragic  business,"  he  thought.  "My  anonymous  let- 
ter was  no  distant  cast." 

Before  long  they  were  seated  together,  the  waves 
running  up  within  a  yard  of  them,  and  falling  back 
over  the  white  pebbles  with  a  swish  most  delightful 
to  hear.  They  talked  a  bit,  were  silent,  felt  the 
world  above  their  own  troubles  to  be  great  and  beau- 
tiful. But  the  famine  was  coming  down  behind. 

"We  're  in  dread  it  will  be  worse  than  last  saison, 
bad  as  we  were  pinched,"  said  Felim ;  "if  so,  half  the 
village  will  be  thrown  down  and  the  people  beggars 
on  the  road.  But 't  is  n't  that  is  tormenting  me,  sir. 
I  waited  here  till  you  done  spaking  with  Joan 
O'Dwyer."  He  would  have  said  more,  but  Edmund 
cut  in. 

"Ah,  that  is  it!  Wait  a  while,  Felim.  Who 
taught  you  to  write?" 

"I  'm  not  able  to  write  a  stroke,"  answered  the  lad, 
wondering.  "Ould  Cathal  could  never  hould  me  to 


THE   COUSINS  299 

it,  nor  Garret  nayther.  More  shame  for  us!  We 
are  as  ignorant  as  a  hound  of  all  but  getting  the  bit 
to  ate,  and  that  is  going  from  us." 

"What  of  Joan,  then?  Is  it  a  match  between 
you?" 

"It  is  not,  sir;  indeed,  I  might  as  well  whistle  to 
the  curlews  or  the  sea-gulls  and  hope  to  bring  them  to 
me,  as  be  sweethearting  Joan,"  he  answered,  with 
the  melancholy  tenderness  of  his  people,  which  any 
disappointment  calls  up.  "She  is  the  woman  that  is 
most  for  destroying  me.  But  let  it  go;  the  man 
away  there  at  the  castle  is  more  to  her  than  a  shoal 
of  Felims.  I  wanted  you  to  know  that." 

Confirmation  strong,  since  he  could  not  write,  and 
looked  the  image  of  simple  truth!  O'Riordan  was 
not  slack  in  unfolding  the  mixed  skein  of  what  he 
knew  and  what  he  fancied — the  meetings,  the  mas- 
ter's distracted  yet  not  unhappy  looks,  but,  above  all, 
his  own  failure  to  get,  though  Cathal  had  been  most 
eloquent,  the  promise  of  a  farm.  "He  would  n't  give 
as  much  as  the  palm  of  your  hand,"  said  the 
boy,  bitter  and  sad.  "Why  so,  unless  he  was  snap- 
ping up  Joan  for  his  own  supper?  He  is  to  have 
her,  and  not  me;  is  n't  that  the  commencement  of 
a  sorrowful  tale,  Mr.  Edmund?  I  lave  it  to  your 
honor." 

"The  schoolmaster  lets  his  tongue  run  with  all 


300  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

this  to  the  neighbors.  I  '11  go  bail,"  said  Edmund. 
"It  is  the  common  talk." 

"I  frightened  him  from  that,"  answered  Felim; 
"though  his  mind  is  no  closer  than  a  sieve,  he  'd  fear 
to  lose  the  cot  a  second  time;  but  surely,  whin  the 
divil  puts  down  his  foot,  he  laves  the  mark  of  a  hoof 
— God  bless  us  and  save  us !" 

An  ugly  hoof  it  was.  That  Philip  should  be  tus- 
sling with  a  raw  fisher  lad  about  this  peasant  girl — so 
the  cousin  argued,  and  the  poet  in  him  was  half  dis- 
posed to  agree — proved  the  worst  his  enemies  could 
allege;  moreover,  what  enemies  had  the  baronet? 
No — the  print  was  too  plain,  and  everybody  saw  it. 

"You  will  spake  a  word  for  me,"  said  O'Riordan, 
softly.  "I  did  n't  tell  you  this  to  make  bad  blood ; 
let  me  have  the  bit  of  mountain  itself,  and  I  would 
be  content  with  Joan — we  'd  battle  it  out  together." 

Edmund  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  arm — it  could 
give  a  hard  blow,  he  said  to  himself — and,  "Never 
blame  me,  if  you  don't  get  your  wish,"  he  answered, 
"but  Renmore  is  not  mine.  Till  I  have  spoken  to 
Sir  Philip,  let  Joan  and  her  father  alone ;  keep  away 
from  their  cottage;  and,  should  I  want  a  service 
from  you,  would  you  do  it?" 

"I  'd  go  to  the  world's  end  if  you  beckoned  me," 
said  Felim.  "Will  I  swear  it  to  you  on  that  book  in 
your  hand  ?" 


THE    COUSINS  301 

"Your  word  is  enough,"  said  Liscarroll ;  "be  ready 
at  call."  He  gave  some  directions,  and  on  this  un- 
derstanding they  separated. 

Not  that  any  lines  could  be  set — nor  did  they  need 
setting — while  the  master  was  stretched  like  a  dog  at 
his  mother's  door,  idle  but  held  fast.  He  had  not 
got  inside  for  several  days  after  Edmund's  return; 
and  the  suspense,  doubled  by  the  strangeness,  gave 
his  feelings  a  wrench  that  dislocated  sentiment,  or 
would  have  swept  it  from  his  heart  had  it  been  less 
powerful.  The  figure  in  his  secret  garden  now  ap- 
peared remote  and  a  little  clouded  over.  Attraction 
as  the  square  of  the  distance  holds  in  the  spirit-world 
no  doubt ;  his  unseen  mother  came  close,  and  because 
she  was,  or  might  be,  dying,  threw  upon  love  and  its 
light  graces  a  kind  of  scorn.  Philip  chafed,  grew 
restive,  gave  in  to  the  spectral  fascination;  "by  and 
by"  would  do  for  his  courtship,  when  the  black  pall 
had  covered  this  last  act.  Then — then  what?  he 
asked  himself  with  discomfort.  Then  should  the 
world  set  eyes  on  a  new  Lady  Liscarroll  ? 

By  Driscoll's  report  it  seemed  that  the  invalid  slept 
most  of  her  time.  Once  in  a  way  she  inquired,  as  in 
a  half-doze,  whether  Philip  had  gone  home,  begging 
that  he  would  wait  till  she  spoke  to  him.  At  length 
he  was  admitted.  In  a  chamber  darkened  artifi- 
cially, between  white  curtains  which  gave  her  a  look 


302  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

of  ashen-gray,  and  with  large  draperies  about  her, 
the  young  man  saw,  but  indistinctly,  as  through 
a  mist,  his  ailing  mother.  She  made  an  effort  to  use 
her  voice  and  broke  down.  All  she  could  manage 
was  a  sentence  or  two,  interrupted  by  severe  cough- 
ing ;  however,  with  a  smile  just  perceptible,  she  hoped 
he  was  not  worn  out,  said  she  was  herself  on  the 
mending  hand ;  if  he  desired  to  see  how  things  were 
going  at  Renmore,  let  him  fly  there  and  be  back 
again  as  soon  as  he  might.  Philip  had  question  upon 
question  to  ask;  but  the  doctor  sat  near,  measuring 
the  seconds,  and  after  this  unsatisfactory  interview 
the  baronet  was  compelled  to  retire. 

"How  do  you  explain  the  transparent  gleam  which 
I  noticed  in  my  mother's  eyes?"  he  said  to  Driscoll. 

"It  is  a  bad  sign,"  the  surgeon  replied,  shaking  his 
head;  "consumptive  patients  have  it,  and  opium- 
eaters.  However,  I  don't  give  her  up  yet.  You 
may  safely  take  a  couple  of  days." 

He  took  them,  and  the  first  sight  he  had  of  the 
Renmore  country  showed  him  acres  and  acres  of  the 
potato  steaming  under  a  hot  sun,  all  the  tokens  of  the 
plague  visible.  The  nearer  home  he  came  the  more 
frightful  was  the  devastation !  ruin  made  no  choice, 
every  part  of  the  crop  yielded  the  same  intolerable 
stench;  and  the  people  were  out  in  crowds  like 
swarming  bees — some  crying  aloud,  others  praying, 


THE   COUSINS  303 

more  not  capable  of  anything  but  a  stupid,  speechless 
attitude,  as  of  men,  dead  drunk,  lying  prone  upon  the 
soil.  Women  called  on  God  with  loud  cries ;  terrified 
children  clung  to  their  skirts  and,  after  a  pause  of 
consternation,  lifted  up  their  voices,  thin  and  clear, 
lamenting  they  knew  not  what.  Here  was  a  second 
shock  which  threw  Philip  into  a  state  of  discourage- 
ment, yet  of  dumb  rage,  and  pulled  his  nerves  as  with 
red-hot  pincers.  He  pitied  and  hated  himself,  his 
tenants,  every  soul  of  man.  Life  was  a  horror  and 
a  fraud.  He  loathed  it. 

"My  rents  are  rotting  in  the  ground,"  said  he  that 
evening  to  his  cousin,  as  they  sat  after  dinner  at  the 
open  window,  smoking  cigars.  "You  '11  see  no  more 
of  your  next  allowance  than  you  can  hold  on  the  tip 
of  your  Havana.  We  owe  the  Munster  Bank  al- 
ready. Colegrave  knows  how  much;  I  don't.  Sell 
a  few  of  your  rhymes  and  tags,  Eddie,  to  some  pub- 
lisher. Won't  they  fetch  a  few  coppers?" 

"They  are  mostly  love-songs,  and  I  'm  not  in 
love,"  replied  the  other,  carelessly.  "The  public 
don't  take  to  sentiment  served  up  cold.  Try  you, 
my  lad." 

"What,  cold  sentiment !  Thank  you,  I  shall  have 
enough  on  my  hands  with  this  accursed  potato-rot. 
No  time  for  sentiment,  hot  or  cold." 

"I  meant  scalding.     But  you  never  said  a  wiser 


3o4  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

word,  Phil.  It  is  a  sharp  notice  to  the  two  of  us.  I 
must  drop  my  sonneteering,  you  your  love-making. 
All  on  account  of  diseased  potatoes !  What  a  sub- 
ject for  the  epic  poet !  Now,  if  the  Dean  were  alive, 
here  would  be  his  pickle-herring  tragedy,  which  he 
calls  the  sorriest  of  farces." 

Philip,  you  may  be  sure,  had  no  ears  for  this  tom- 
foolery, under  cover  of  which  Edmund  had  leveled 
his  piece,  and  shot  straight. 

"You  said  my  love-making.  Will  you  give  it  a 
name?"  growled  the  low  voice,  while  Philip  leaned 
forward  in  his  chair,  no  peony  more  scarlet. 

"Soon  done.  The  first  two  letters  of  its  name 
are  Joan  O'Dwyer,"  said  his  cousin,  returning  the 
murderous  look. 

"It  is  a  damned  lie !"  the  sound  startled  like  thun- 
der inside  the  room;  "whoever  told  you  that  I  have 
— that  she — " 

"Is  it  a  lie  that  joins  your  names  together  ?  Tush, 
I  am  wasting  my  breath.  Don't  be  mad  with  me, 
Phil.  There  is  just  one  thing  for  you  to  say  and 
me  to  hear;  then  I  pitch  the  whole  business  to 
Halifax." 

"Well?"  inquired  the  baronet,  still  leaning  for- 
ward, his  cigar  between  his  fingers.  "Well,"  reiter- 
ated Philip,  as  the  other  sighed  heavily,  like  those 
who  are  mounting  a  steep  ascent. 


THE   COUSINS  305 

"Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  marry  the 
girl?" 

After  that  neither  of  them  could  speak.  They 
heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  whir  of  evening 
bats  with  their  ghostly  cry  in  the  air  outside;  min- 
utes passed. 

"What  concern  is  that  of  yours  ?"  said  the  baronet, 
slowly. 

"Ha!  you  are  fencing,"  retorted  his  cousin,  now 
sure  that  villainy  was  on  foot.  "Can  you  not  be  a 
man  ?  Speak  and  shame  the  devil.  I  put  it  as  plain 
as  two  and  two  before  you.  Do  you,  Sir  Philip 
Liscarroll,  etcetera,  etcetera,  see  yourself  bringing 
that  girl  into  this  room  as  Lady  of  Renmore?  No, 
you  don't  dare  say  it.  Then  what  is  your  meaning?" 

"That  is  my  meaning,"  cried  the  young  madman, 
dashing  his  lighted  cigar  into  Edmund's  face.  It 
seemed  to  strike  out  sparks  from  his  cousin's  eyes, 
as  they  sprang  to  their  feet  and  confronted  one 
another.  In  an  instant  they  were  grappling,  suf- 
focated. "Let  me  go,  or  I  will  strangle  you,"  mut- 
tered Philip,  his  great  hands  on  the  other's  throat. 
They  were  unequally  matched,  and  Edmund  fell 
back,  panting;  his  head  would  have  struck  the  floor 
had  not  his  wild  assailant  caught  him. 

"I  '11  teach  you  to  interfere,"  said  Philip,  as  he 
released  him.  The  poet  made  no  answer  at  first; 


306  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

he  was  collecting  himself  for  a  strong  effort,  not  to 
try  conclusions  with  his  hands,  but  to  act  on  the 
whole  situation.  In  a  singularly  strained  accent  he 
said  after  some  internal  conflict,  "I  want  your  prom- 
ise that  you  will  marry  Joan  O'Dwyer  or  let  her 
alone." 

"And  I  will  break  your  neck  if  you  say  another 
word  about  it,"  cried  Philip.  Had  Joan  herself, 
there  and  then,  begged  him  on  her  knees  to  answer, 
he  would  not  have  done  it. 

There  was  a  burning  on  Edmund's  cheek,  where 
the  cigar  had  struck,  just  below  the  left  eye.  It 
smarted  and  made  him  blink.  He  appeared  to  be 
considering  deeply.  "Poor  girl,  poor  girl,"  he  said 
at  last,  "I  did  hope  to  save  you.  Now  it  is  over. 
Lost,  both  of  us — no  chance  for  either."  Then  he 
laughed  excitedly,  and,  turning  to  Philip,  continued. 
"If  we  were  nothing  to  each  other  this  would  end 
— you  know  how." 

"As  you  please,  and  where  you  please,"  answered 
the  baronet;  "suit  yourself." 

"I  will — don't  fear.  But  I  shall  not  send  you  a 
challenge,"  replied  his  cousin. 

Philip  walked  off  to  the  window,  and  gazed  out 
on  the  flushed  evening. 

"I  leave  Renmore;  whatever  happens  to  you,  I 
have  done  with  it.  Good-by,  Philip,"  said  the  other. 


THE   COUSINS  307 

"We  were  at  no  time  very  thick;  but  I  could  have 
helped  any  one  who  was  not  a  fool." 

"Go,"  answered  the  baronet. 

He  heard  Edmund's  retreating  steps  and  in  not 
many  minutes  saw  him,  cloaked  and  hatted,  pass 
out  from  the  hall  door  and  disappear  in  the  woods. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BY    THE    LONNDUBH 

BETWEEN  that  and  midnight,  the  steward  came 
three  or  four  times,  on  divers  pretenses,  into 
the  room,  but  always  found  his  master  smoking  and 
immovable  at  the  window,  not  to  be  disturbed  by 
questions.  The  late  moon  waned  into  a  white  sheet, 
and  still  he  sat  there.  Dawn  unclosed  its  purple  eye- 
lids; he  was  mute,  wakeful,  deep  in  thought.  His 
naked  spirit  shivered  in  its  loneliness.  When  he 
looked  to  one  side,  as  if  seeking  counsel,  his  eyes 
rested  on  Sir  Walter's  grave.  In  the  other  direction, 
unseen  but  felt,  was  Joan  O'Dwyer's  cottage.  A 
strange,  inarticulate  dialogue  seemed  to  pass  in  the 
air  between  them,  warning  him  how  he  ventured 
to  match  himself  with  one  he  might  lose  or  leave 
— his  father's  doom  over  again.  But  the  sweetness 
of  love  tasted  was  also  on  his  lips.  That  made  the 
soul  faint  within  him. 

He  would  act  before  the  morrow  ended.  Mr. 
Colegrave  was  to  be  in  his  office  at  ten — an  appoint- 
ment which  could  not  now  be  put  off.  That  dealt  with 

308 


BY   THE   LONNDUBH  309 

he  must  go  down  to  the  schoolmaster's.  Had  he 
caught  a  decisive  word  in  the  night's  colloquy  be- 
tween Love  and  Death,  Philip  might  have  hurled  the 
estate  and  the  agent  into  the  bottomless  pit,  or,  with 
a  terrific  pang,  cut  through  the  wizard's  knot  which 
bound  him.  The  case  was  too  hard.  Meditation 
showed  it  in  a  thousand  varying  shades  of  guilt  or 
misery.  A  few  hours  would,  perhaps,  clear  the  sand, 
reveal  the  crystal.  Though  he  had  struck  Edmund 
that  horrid,  indefensible  blow — as  in  cooler  moments 
he  was  not  unwilling  to  grant — he  knew  his  cousin, 
and  trusted  in  his  honor. 

The  man  whom  he  had  insulted  was  not  far  off. 
While  one  of  these  cousins  sat  staring  at  the  moon, 
the  other  was  wandering  in  the  sea-kirtled  woods  of 
that  ancient  house,  or  had  thrown  himself  drowsily 
on  great  heaps  of  dry  heather,  close  to  the  waves, 
and  was  arguing  this  debatable  cause.  His  first  plan 
had  been  dashed  against  a  blind  reef ;  "but  I  may  still 
rouse  the  sense  of  danger;  and  that  other  move  is 
left,"  he  reflected,  meaning  he  knew  what. 

Shame  and  weariness  overcame  him  toward  the 
early  hours ;  he  slept,  to  wake  with  a  start  under  the 
broad,  warm  day,  resolved  not  to  violate  the  finest 
demands  of  his  own  punctilious  temper,  yet  hoping 
the  end  would  reward  him.  "In  token  that  I  am 
honest,  I  give  up  my  tanistry,"  was  his  half-smiling 


310  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

thought  as  he  sprang  from  the  heather.  "I  give  up," 
he  continued,  biting  his  pale  lips,  and  with  a  sigh, 
"Lisaveta — if  it  was  not  done  before.  Pretty  well 
for  an  effeminate  amorist,  who  had  endured  what  I 
did  last  night,  never  striking  back.  And  I  would 
have  struck — had  he  not  looked  so  wretched,  poor 
devil !  Now  he  calls  me  coward,  no  doubt." 

Walking  with  a  certain  carefulness,  Edmund 
turned  up  the  side  of  the  Lonndubh,  refreshing  his 
eyesight  with  its  morning  splendors  of  light  under 
the  thick  branches.  He  came  upon  Joan  as  she 
moved  toward  her  cottage  from  the  spring  where  she 
had  drawn  a  pitcher  of  water.  So  early  an  en- 
counter boded  no  good;  she  set  down  her  burden, 
paused  near  a  tall  oak,  now  in  all  its  glory  of  russet 
and  green,  and  waited  until  he  should  open  the  dia- 
logue. 

"I  have  seen  Philip,"  were  his  first  words,  in  a 
tone  so  friendly  that  she  looked  at  him  with  astonish- 
ment. "Ah,  you  wonder  how  I  got  this  mark,"  he 
went  on,  touching  his  cheek  lightly  and  coloring: 
"it  is  your  mark,  Joan — set  on  me  by  my  cousin  as 
soon  as  I  mentioned  your  name." 

"You  '11  break  the  heart  in  me,"  she  cried,  trem- 
bling all  over.  "What  call  had  you  to  come  be- 
tween us  ?  Oh,  sir,  is  it  the  way  with  love  and  affec- 
tion to  ruin  us  all  ?" 


BY  THE   LONNDUBH  3n 

"It  is,  Joan,  dear,"  replied  the  poet;  "you  should 
have  known  that  same  when  you  gave  love  to  the 
master.  For  myself,  I  am  leaving  Renmore  from 
this  out." 

"On  account  of  me?"  she  inquired,  her  breast 
heaving. 

"On  your  account  alone,  my  child.  It  is  right  I 
should  tell  you  so." 

"But  I  would  n't  marry  the  best  man  that  trod  on 
shoe  leather  till  he  let  you  back  into  your  own  home," 
she  said,  "and  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

"Did  he  ever  promise  to  make  you  Lady  Lis- 
carroll  ?"  began  Edmund,  but  he  broke  off  suddenly. 
"Don't  answer  me — what  signifies  Philip's  promise, 
good  or  bad.  It  is  yourself  must  say  the  word." 

"Long  ago  I  was  telling  my  own  mind  what  you 
are  telling  me  now,"  she  answered  proudly.  "The 
thing  that  is  a  hundred  times  too  good  for  me  is  not 
good  enough  for  the  like  of  him.  My  heaven  would 
be  his  hell." 

"Joan,  I  have  news  for  you,"  said  he,  with  great 
gentleness;  she  looked  and  listened  as  to  a  doom  or 
an  oracle.  "When  I  was  in  the  County  Galway, 
some  one  you  should  think  of  now  rose  up  before 
me." 

"Oh,  you  have  seen  my  mother,"  cried  the  poor 
girl,  running  to  him.  "She  is  not  dead  yet.  Thanks 


3i2  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

be  to  God !  But  surely  sick,  or  sore,  or  sorry.  Did 
she  not  ask  was  my  father  living?  You  told  her  I 
do  be  praying  for  her  night  and  morning  ?" 

"  'T  was  this  way,  my  child.  Mr.  Staunton  has  a 
great  estate — Altamira  it  is  called — and  in  the  stoni- 
est parts  of  it  do  be  living  the  squatters  he  won't  turn 
off  to  the  workhouse — they  are  so  miserable  outside 
it,  what  would  they  be  inside?" 

"God  bless  him  for  that,"  said  Joan. 

"Well,  he  used  to  be  showing  me  those  squatters 
and  the  cabins  they  put  over  their  heads — low  bits  of 
sheilings  you  must  stoop  to  go  into,  the  naked  stones 
on  one  another,  as  a  child  would  make  a  house  of 
them.  And  on  the  doorstep  of  the  worst  there  I 
caught  a  woman  looking  hard  at  me ;  and  I  seemed  to 
have  a  sketch  of  her  face.  Indeed  I  had,  Joan ;  and 
my  eye  is  on  it  now,"  he  said,  regarding  her  pitifully, 
"but  when  Mr.  Staunton  spoke  my  name,  what  did 
she  do  but  let  a  screech  out  of  her  you  'd  hear  across 
Galway  Bay,  and  fall  dead  at  my  feet?" 

"Oh,  Mother  of  God,  and  was  she  dead  entirely?" 
cried  Joan,  her  hands  lifted  in  the  suppliant  attitude 
of  Irish  despair. 

"God  did  not  give  her  the  grace  to  die,"  he  an- 
swered, "yet  who  knows  ?  Perhaps  she  lives  to  fulfil 
a  good  purpose  that  no  other  could.  I  '11  not  tear 
your  heart  with  a  long  story.  Macklin  is  dead 


BY  THE   LONNDUBH  313 

this  many  a  day;  't  was  he  played  the  mischief 
here — we  will  forget  that;  and  she  is  a  lone 
woman,  withered,  gray,  and  broken,  ashamed  to  be 
seen." 

"Let  her  come  back  to  us — had  we  but  a  meal  of 
stirabout  we  will  share  it  with  her.  Oh,  let  her 
come  back  to  her  own,"  said  the  girl,  and  fell  voice- 
less from  sheer  emotion. 

"Listen  to  me,  and  you  will  know  if  I  did  right. 
That  was  the  very  word  I  put  upon  her.  'Go  back, 
Sheila,'  said  I,  'to  the  place  you  came  from.  Your 
poor  old  man  will  take  you  in ;  and  Joan — '  I  need  n't 
say  what  my  talk  was  of  Joan.  The  few  shillings  to 
pay  her  way  she  would  not  take,  however." 

"And  you  left  her  among  the  stones  of  Galway?" 
asked  the  girl,  with  a  strong  sense  of  rebuke  hardly 
kept  down. 

Edmund  smiled.  "That  is  your  reckoning  of  me, 
is  it?  Now,  my  girl,  whatever  happens  after  this, 
believe  I  could  n't  do  more  for  you  if  you  were  my 
own  sister." 

"That  I  '11  never  be,"  she  murmured,  adding  in 
her  heart,  "Nor  any  man's  wife." 

"I  persuaded  your  mother  to  leave  that  place  and 
come  home.  She  gave  me  her  oath  upon  it.  'But,' 
said  she,  'for  my  penance  and  my  poverty  I  '11  walk 
every  step  of  the  road.'  She  took  a  start  that  same 


3H  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

day,  by  herself,  barefoot,  carrying  her  poor  little 
duds  in  a  parcel  on  her  back." 

"But  is  n't  it  a  miracle  her  not  to  be  here  by  this  ? 
How  long  would  she  be  going  the  road?"  inquired 
her  daughter,  anxiously. 

"Here  's  the  second  chapter  of  my  tale,"  answered 
Edmund ;  "I  had  my  own  reasons  for  turning  home 
two  or  three  days  after  Sheila  going.  At  Kilmal- 
lock  I  was  to  take  dinner  with  the  Quinns — old 
friends  of  our  family — and  there  's  a  holy  well — 't  is 
but  a  cupful  of  water — on  the  roadside,  before  you 
turn  into  the  main  street.  At  that  spot  your  mother 
was  seated,  footsore  and  half  killed  with  her  travel- 
ing. She  could  not  raise  a  limb  from  the  ground — 
was  it  a  stroke  of  the  Almighty,  or  the  great  misery 
she  had  gone  through?  I  am  not  able  to  tell  you. 
But  her  journey  came  to  an  end  at  the  holy  well." 

"I  am  sure  you  never  left  her  in  that  state;  your 
heart  would  be  in  your  mouth  seeing  a  woman  so 
wasted." 

"It  was,  Joan.  But  by  that  time  I  had  news 
which  when  we  first  met  was  unknown  to  me — 
news  concerning  yourself.  My  friend  Quinn  is  a 
doctor;  I  explained  the  case  to  him,  and  your 
mother  I  left  under  his  charge  at  Kilmallock,  where 
you—" 

She  would  not  let  him  finish.     "Where  I  will  go 


BY  THE   LONNDUBH  315 

to  her — I  and  my  father — we  will  lave  this  place — 
see  how  God  does  everything  for  the  best!  Is  not 
the  man  above  wiser  than  all  of  us  ?"  said  Joan,  with 
tears,  not  unhappy. 

"My  knowledge  of  you  was  not  less  than  my  con- 
fidence," replied  Edmund.  "When  will  you  turn 
your  face  to  the  road?  And — could  I  lend  your 
father  what  would  pay  the  car  driver  ?" 

"You  could  not,  sir;"  she  waved  a  decisive  hand, 
her  eyes  bright  with  the  tender  drops.  "They  must 
never  have  it  to  say  we  were  paid  to  lave  Renmore. 
I  have  what  will  clear  some  part  of  the  road ;  the  rest 
we  will  take  as  my  mother  did." 

"Sir  Philip  will  be  hurrying  after  you,"  said  the 
young  man,  "if  he  gets  the  least  hint.  Can  you  start 
without  delay?" 

Her  breath  stopped.  The  air  seemed  to  quiver 
with  passion,  as  the  waves  beneath  an  intense  sun- 
shine. It  was  impossible  that  Edmund  should  say 
one  word  more,  and  he  stood  passive  in  this  moment 
of  their  fate,  when  the  scales  swung  to  and  fro  un- 
decided. 

"I  have  no  right  to  run  from  him  and  no  talk 
between  us,"  she  said  convulsively. 

"Your  mother,"  whispered  Edmund,  "your 
mother,  Joan!" 

"Was  she  the  best  of  mothers,  he  has  my  hand  and 


316  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

word;  I  can,  I  must,  go  back  from  them;  but  I  '11 
do  it  to  his  face." 

"With  bare  hands  you  will  pluck  your  heart  out 
of  the  burning  coals  ?  He  is  a  devil  to  have  his  own 
way;  are  you  able  for  him?  I  can  see  you  tremble 
from  here." 

"Through  fire  and  hell  itself  I  will  go  to  have  my 
heart  again,"  she  said,  flushing  up ;  "if  I  am  wake,  I 
am  honest.  He  shall  be  told  I  am  taking  the  road  to 
my  mother,  but  not  where  she  is.  Thin  he  won't 
say  it  is  putting  a  lie  on  him  I  was." 

"You  will  go  to-morrow,  if  you  stay  this  day,"  in- 
sisted Edmund. 

"We  will  go  after  seeing  him.  That  's  the  bond 
is  upon  me." 

Edmund  came  up  and  took  her  hand.  "God  be 
with  you,  Joan.  I  have  done.  I  will  let  the  Quinns 
know  you  are  coming.  If  you  want  to  get  away 
easily,  put  your  trust  in  Felim  O'Riordan,  and  don't 
see  Sir  Philip.  Shall  we  meet  again  ?  God  knows. 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  England ;  it  is  far 
from  Renmore.  You  will  risk  yourself  with  the 
master  ?" 

"If  you  wint — and  I  wint — on  the  one  day,  every 
tongue  of  the  neighbors  would  have  the  same  story," 
she  said,  with  a  child's  innocent  malice.  "But  you 
scorn  to  be  thinking  what  they  'd  say." 


BY  THE   LONNDUBH  317 

"My  thought  is  that  when  you  hear  Philip's 
whisper,  like  the  breeze  in  the  branches  over  our 
heads,  you  will  despise  the  whole  world  too.  Rather 
than  that  I  would  carry  you  myself  to  Kilmallock." 

Her  hands  were  clenched  with  fierce  determination 
across  her  breast.  "One  word  is  as  good  as  a  thou- 
sand," she  said.  "If  the  blow  kills  me,  I  must  let 
him  strike  it  here.  May  the  angels  of  God  pick  every 
stone  from  before  your  feet  as  you  go,  Mr.  Edmund, 
and  may  the  ocean  be  a  soft  pillow  to  your  head! 
Was  it  not  for  you  I  would  be  still  in  the  dark. 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  I  '11  never  forget  that." 

He  turned,  and  while  she  stood  as  if  to  watch  him, 
but  full  of  her  own  great  distracting  thoughts,  his 
bent  figure  was  absorbed  into  the  waving  woods, 
sucked  down  into  life's  past.  "When  I  set  eyes 
on  him  again,  I  '11  be  a  widow,"  she  said  to  herself, 
repeatedly,  "a  widow  that  was  never  a  wife.  'T  is 
my  pity  and  my  portion."  The  sweet  Celtic  laments, 
with  their  pretty  words  of  moan,  sounded  within  her, 
softly  and  sadly,  like  the  women  beginning  to  keen  at 
a  burial.  "Is  truagh!"  and  "mo  bhron!"  echoed  the 
refrain,  heart-rending,  untranslatable.  Already  she 
listened  for  the  steps  of  tempest  rushing  down  from 
the  castle. 

And  in  the  sultry  languor  of  afternoon  Philip  was 
at  her  door.  The  wise,  hard  agent  had  kept  him, 


3i8  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

grinding  sparks  out  of  a  millstone,  with  reports  of 
gales  not  paid,  nor  likely  to  be  paid  at  Martinmas 
next,  of  mortgages  demanding  their  interest,  of  loans 
from  the  bank  which  must  be  renewed  at  higher 
terms,  all  the  deadly  symptoms,  in  short,  that,  break- 
ing out  over  encumbered  estates  like  a  disease, 
prophesied  of  woes  more  formidable.  Above  all,  the 
famine  was  throwing  itself  on  these  broad  acres. 
Would  Sir  Philip  join  with  other  gentlemen  in  a 
strong  resolution  at  the  forthcoming  sessions — he 
was,  of  course,  on  the  Grand  Jury — which  might 
strike  and  stir  public  opinion  in  England?  This, 
that,  and  the  other — a  man  with  the  plague  in  all  his 
limbs  making  his  will !  At  last  he  flung  away,  ran 
out  into  the  open,  and  directed  his  steps  toward  the 
cottage.  Edmund  was  nowhere  to  be  seen;  he  had 
apparently  stuck  to  his  word  and  absconded.  But 
had  he  spoken  ?  and  with  what  result  ? 

Yes,  yes,  a  single  glance  told  him;  Joan  was  an- 
other woman.  "You  have  been  talking  with  Ed- 
mund," he  said,  astonished  at  the  exceeding  beauty 
of  her  paleness,  the  luminous  depths  of  her  purple- 
gray  eyes,  and  touched  almost  to  fainting  when 
he  saw  her  tremble.  "But  don't  believe  him," 
pursued  the  ardent  lover,  his  hand  stretched  to 
seize  hers  and  convey  a  thrilling  assurance  from  his 
heart.  "Never  a  word,  my  beloved.  Why  do  you 


BY  THE   LONNDUBH  319 

draw  away  from  me  ?  I  must  not  touch  you  ?  But 
why?" 

They  were  outside  in  the  thick,  whispering  reeds, 
at  that  time  half  asleep,  and  the  Lonndubh  stretched 
glassy  and  still  along  their  path.  Not  that  they 
walked  as  in  the  old  days,  dreamily  sauntering ;  their 
steps  were  few  and  they  came  back  upon  them,  so 
overweighted  with  passion  that  their  limbs  refused 
very  soon  to  move.  Joan  wanted  to  be  out  of  her 
father's  view,  and  avoided  the  open  spaces  where  he 
might  have  caught  sight  of  them  from  the  cabin 
door. 

"Give  me  time,  Sir  Philip,"  she  said  humbly;  in 
that  word  he  felt  a  cloud  all  about  him. 

"Don't  think  me  changed,"  he  was  urging;  "last 
night  Edmund  drove  me  crazy.  I  am  not  different. 
What  did  he  say  of  me  ?" 

"He  said  it  was  no  matter  what  you  said,"  she 
answered — this  was  the  surgeon  opening  his  case  of 
instruments — "but  that  is  not  it — help  me  now  a 
little — no,  don't  look  at  me  that  way — "  she  fixed 
her  own  eyes  resolutely  on  the  ground.  "You  gave 
me  a  promise  one  time,"  she  continued,  then  her 
breath  failed. 

"Did  he  say  I  would  n't  keep  it  ?"  asked  Philip,  in 
accents  as  shattered  as  her  own.  She  shook  her 
head  and  moved  down  toward  the  stream. 


320  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"Lave  Mr.  Edmund  out  of  it,"  was  the  reply ;  "he 
would  n't  ask  me  was  there  a  binding  word  between 
us.  Indeed,  I  thought  you  out  of  your  mind  to  give 
it,  and  here  it  is  for  you  again." 

She  turned  and  was  holding  out  the  ruddy  curl, 
tied  with  silk,  which  in  their  hour  of  ecstasy  she  had 
cut  from  his  temples.  Philip  snatched  it  with  vio- 
lence and  flung  it  into  the  idle  water,  where  it  loi- 
tered, was  blown  about,  drifted  this  way  and  that, 
until  a  sudden  gust  sent  it  floating  seaward. 

"But  I  don't  give  back  mine !"  he  exclaimed,  and  a 
red  rain  of  tears,  as  he  thought,  fell  from  his  burning 
eyes.  "Will  you  break  your  oath,  Joan  ?  What  was 
it  we  swore?  That  cousin — God  confound  him! — 
so  angered  me,  I  would  not  answer  his  insolent  ques- 
tions. Now  you  punish  me  with  whips  of  steel.  But 
I  mean  to  marry  you;  I  never  meant  anything 
else." 

"If  I  took  an  oath,  I  will  take  another  to  equal  it," 
she  said,  always  as  if  the  next  sentence  must  break 
her  in  pieces.  "I  gave  you  back  the  lock  of  hair. 
Oh,  't  is  gone  from  me !"  and  that  cry  of  a  sick  child 
brought  him  to  her  heart,  but  she  ran  to  escape  him, 
wildly,  as  though  her  leap  would  be  into  the  river. 
"I  '11  die  before  it  is  done,"  she  whispered,  "but  it 
must  be  done.  You  have  your  promise  again;  let 
me  have  my  oath — we  will  never —  Did  I  tell  you 


BY  THE   LONNDUBH  321 

my  father  and  myself  should  be  laving  this  place 
to-morrow  ?" 

"Come,  I  won't  harm  you,"  said  Philip,  seeing  her 
desperate,  his  love  at  odds  with  a  horrible  sense  of 
freedom.  Joan  was  the  most  beautiful  of  God's 
creatures  now,  struggling  toward  some  great  height, 
some  nobleness  that  rayed  out  splendor  as  she  faced 
it.  Oh,  lose  this  soul  of  his  soul,  this  unparalleled, 
before  whom  he  was  smitten  with  light, — not  for  all 
he  ever  had,  or  should  forfeit ! 

"I  hold  you  to  your  promise,"  he  broke  out,  and 
then  tried  to  be  calm.  "Why  leave  me  and  this 
place,  you  foolish  child  ?  It  is  your  home ;  I  am  your 
husband."  That  pleading  in  his  voice,  which  melted 
them  both,  was  very  dangerous.  For  a  moment  the 
girl  stood  vanquished.  But  her  eyes  followed  the 
floating  curl,  as  it  was  borne  out  to  sea ;  and  even  so 
slight  a  thing  done  gave  her  support. 

"Relaise  me,"  she  said  quietly,  "from  my  bonds. 
When  that  curl  left  me,  my  heart  went  with  it. 
Philip,  from  this  out,  I  am  a  dead  woman  to 
you." 

In  his  bloodshot,  brilliant  eyes  you  might  have 
read  the  madness  of  love  and  murder,  such  a  mixed 
passion  as  fills  the  streets  of  populous  cities  with  the 
cry  of  tragedy  hawked  as  evening  news.  Murder, 
hiding  them  both  under  its  dusky  wings — the  Love- 


322  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

Raven,  black  as  midnight,  a  blot  on  the  sultry  Au- 
gust weather — a  breathless  flame  which,  in  another 
moment,  would  spurt  its  venom.  Joan  felt  the  dark 
bird  flapping  noiseless  pinions;  she  sank  as  it 
hovered. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,"  she  gasped  in  pity  and 
terror,  "Philip,  take  your  eyes  from  me!  I  did  n't 
think  to  hurt  you  so  bad.  Whist,  dear,  I  said  the 
heart  was  out  of  me,  and  't  is  true;  you  have  it 
always.  I  found  my  mother  at  last — my  mother  that 
strayed  away,  Philip,  dear — 't  is  to  her  we  are  going. 
Ah,  dear  God  above,  what  a 'stroke  to  the  man  you 
gave  me !" 

With  fire,  as  in  the  Arabian  tale,  she  had  fought 
fire,  though  it  should  make  ashes  of  herself.  The 
Love-Raven  drooped,  split  with  a  dart  tempered 
at  the  forge  of  hell ;  it  tumbled,  clearing  the  sky 
in  its  descent,  and  Philip  was  a  mere  man  again. 
No  apparition  could  be  half  so  dreadful  as  this 
haggard,  ludicrous  mother,  that  "strayed  away,"  and 
was  now  bleating  after  her  lamb  in  some  frowsy 
thicket.  At  this  supreme  moment,  his  hopes  all 
broken  glass,  splinters  from  which  the  naked  foot 
recoils,  he  laughed — a  loud,  blaspheming  laugh,  that 
smote  the  heavens  as  with  a  fist  and  railed  upon  the 
gods. 

"I  forgot  you  had  a  mother,  Joan,"  he  said  dryly; 


BY   THE    LONNDUBH  323 

"that  alters  the  case.  Fine  things,  mothers — are  n't 
they?  But  we  can't  get  loose  from  them  till  they 
die,  and  how  long  some  of  them  are  about  it! 
Tough — yes — immortal ;  is  it  fresh  air  and  traveling 
that  keeps  them  up?  Birds  pitch  their  young  out 
of  the  nest;  mothers — yours  and  mine — leave  the 
nest  to  bring  up  the  birds,  but  they  always  fly  back, 
don't  they?"  His  voice  changed  without  warning. 
"Oh,  my  girl,  I  think  I  shall  go  mad." 

For  the  last  time  their  arms  were  round  each 
other's  necks,  and  they  had  forgotten  oaths  and 
counter-oaths  in  a  clinging  embrace.  "Will  you 
go  from  me,  mavourneen  ?"  he  whispered.  Her 
tears  ran  softly. 

"I  would  die,  if  't  was  any  good  to  you,"  she  said, 
breathing  the  words  into  his  bosom;  "but  I  am  not 
fit  to  live  with  you.  Now  let  me  take  the  one  fare- 
well in  this  world.  Beyond  it  there  is  nothing  but 
blackness  and  death." 

"You  never  loved  me,"  he  said,  releasing  her  with 
a  wild  cry. 

She  stood  still,  in  the  very  attitude  of  that  marble 
Deirdre,  her  hands  lifted  appealingly.  "As  God  is 
my  judge,  you  were  the  one  desire  of  my  heart,  and 
ever  will  be,"  she  answered,  in  tones  that  had  all  the 
music  of  her  singing.  "Did  I  think  worse  of  myself 
than  of  you — oh,  man,  are  n't  you  nine  times  sweeter 


324  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

to  me  than  the  honey  on  my  lips,  and  more  to  me 
than  father  and  mother  ?  but 't  is  when  the  soul  in  me 
cries  out  for  you,  hungry  and  thirsty,  that  I  swear  to 
God  I  won't  disgrace  you  with  a  thing  like  this. 
There  's  the  lock  of  hair  you  gave  me  away  with 
the  strame  and  out  to  the  ocean ;  but  as  far  as  it  goes, 
't  will  be  a  piece  of  yourself.  Oh,  Philip,  I  am  that 
lock  of  hair ;  and  if  you  never  see  me  the  second  time, 
don't  say  I  was  strange  to  you." 

At  those  words  Joan  fled  into  the  cottage  and 
barred  it  against  him.  He  dared  not  beat  on  the 
door.  But  as  he  passed,  she  heard  a  dreadful  sob- 
bing ;  then  the  woods  and  the  stream  held  their  peace, 
and  a  great  silence  fell. 

Four-and-twenty  hours  later  Philip  went  down 
to  the  cabin  once  more.  It  stood  open.  He  entered 
and  saw  bare  walls,  a  cold  hearth;  the  nest  was 
empty.  Loud  in  the  thatch  the  swallows  twittered ; 
a  wild  rose  hung  down,  straggling  across  the  small 
window,  and  it  showed  crimson  against  the  sun. 
Creatures  of  the  wood  had  drawn  closer,  even  in  that 
brief  space,  encouraged  by  the  absence  of  human 
footsteps.  A  torn  leaf  of  some  Greek  author  lay 
trampled  in  the  moist  clay,  where  the  schoolmaster 
had  let  it  fall. 

She  was  gone — the  free,  brave  spirit  could  not 
be  held  in,  even  by  pity  for  himself.  A  greater  pity 


BY  THE   LONNDUBH  325 

had  driven  her  out;  and  Philip,  with  such  despair  as 
when  Antony  fell  on  his  sword,  never  asked  to  which 
point  of  the  compass  she  was  fleeing.  The  tragic 
end  carried  off  stage  and  all.  From  the  treasure  of 
love  that  yesterday  was  his,  unhappy !  nothing  did  he 
keep  but  a  ringlet  of  blue-black  hair.  He  felt  that, 
like  the  forsaken  home,  he  was  cold  and  dark. 

"These  mothers,  these  mothers,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, in  no  melting  mood.  "Why  can  we  not  burn 
away  the  nerve  that  thrills  when  they  call  ?  I  must  go 
and  see  mine  now.  She  will  ask  me  about — "  He 
could  not  name  her;  could  he  bear  that  any  one 
should  touch  that  string  ?  From  the  cabin  he  strode 
into  the  copse,  walked  for  miles  along  the  lonely 
beach,  mounted  the  hills  and  gaped  for  air  when  the 
vision  of  the  sea  broke  on  him  below  their  furrowed 
crests.  The  August  night  would  not  lose  its  in- 
sufferable brightness;  but  Renmore  Castle  appeared 
to  him  as  an  unquiet  grave;  he  shrank  from  going 
home.  An  old  saying  of  the  schoolmaster's  would 
not  leave  him  :  "Bad  is  the  night,  and  many  a  one  like 
it  will  ye  feel  from  this  out."  When  sunrise  filled 
the  clouds  with  color,  and  the  sky  had  become  a 
burning  jewel  above  his  head,  Philip  was  standing  at 
the  gates  of  Airgead  Ross. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

STRICKEN 

MARCH  had  come,  and  the  hungry  months,  in  a 
procession  of  gray-vestured  hags,  each  more 
grim  and  gaunt  than  she  that  went  before,  were 
climbing  up  the  steep  of  heaven,  which  sometimes 
threw  over  them  a  gleam  of  mocking  sunshine,  and 
afterward  drenched  them  in  rain  for  days  together. 
The  monstrous  famine  lay  stretched  out  full  length 
from  sea  to  sea.  He  had  taken  the  land  in  his 
grasp.  To  Lisaveta,  watching  in  her  tower  at  Silver- 
wood,  a  more  frightful  dream — yet  real  as  horror 
could  make  it — was  ever  present.  She  saw  the 
nation  on  a  raft,  far  out  in  the  Atlantic;  and  of 
the  miserable  food  it  had  snatched  from  the  wreck, 
three-fourths  were  washed  overboard  in  a  wild  tor- 
nado; the  days  might  be  counted  when  what  was 
left  should  fail,  after  which  the  castaways  must  eat 
up  one  another.  "Death  is  the  only  god  that  gets 
no  gifts,"  she  thought,  calling  to  mind  a  verse  from 
some  Greek  poet  that  was  often  on  Edmund's  lips, 

when  they  prophesied  of  the  coming  evil.     "Why 

326 


STRICKEN  327 

does  he  get  none  but  because  he  takes  all?"  she 
argued,  ending  with  a  sigh.  "Where  is  Edmund 
now?  And  Joan,  the  ill-starred  child?  Together 
—then  they  are  wretched;  or  apart — she  had  better 
be  in  her  grave." 

Seven  months,  and  no  tidings  had  reached  them 
of  the  O'Dwyers,  concerning  whom  a  legend  was 
already  growing.  Why  had  they  flitted  suddenly 
within  not  many  hours  of  the  younger  Liscarroll's 
disappearance?  O'Sullivan,  the  steward,  invented, 
or  set  others  upon  sketching,  a  little  fancy  piece, 
which  might  have  been  placarded  on  walls  as  "The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Renmore,"  but  in  it  Sir  Philip 
played  the  honorable  part.  The  event  showed  Joan's 
perverse  taste,  and  sealed  her  doom.  "But  would 
the  old  schoolmaster  go  along  with  her?"  it  was  ob- 
jected. "Cathal  is  a  poor  crathachan"  said  the 
steward;  "you  would  entice  him  to  the  jaws  of  hell 
with  the  smell  of  whisky.  Often  I  heard  his  boast : 
"I  scorn  to  have  sinse  whin  I  'm  drinking."  Let 
who  will  find  the  drop,  O'Dwyer  will  let  the  cailin  go 
to  him.  However,  mark  this,  my  man;  I  am  not 
paid  to  tell  on  Mr.  Edmund,  whatever  he  done,  and 
I  '11  thank  you  to  lave  me  aside  from  your  gossip." 

In  this  shape,  but  with  uncertain  outlines,  the 
story  floated  round  Miss  O'Connor.  She  could  not 
question  Philip  closely,  or  at  all,  after  his  disheveled 


328  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

appearance  at  her  gates  on  that  August  morning. 
Yet  they  had  been  constantly  together  since,  and  a 
legend  was  binding  them  also  as  man  and  wife  to  be, 
when  the  hunger  should  slacken  and  life  run  in 
its  pleasant  channels  again.  No  wonder.  What 
could  be  the  meaning  of  Lady  Liscarroll's  long  stay 
at  Airgead  Ross,  if  not  her  son's  marriage  with  the 
great  heiress  ?  Once  the  cry  went  on  Edmund ;  but 
he  was  flown  to  foreign  parts,  and  Sir  Philip  had 
made  almost  a  home  for  himself  of  Yegor's  cottage; 
surely  with  intention. 

His  mother's  illness  kept  him  there,  you  will  say. 
It  was  lingering,  painful,  and  mysterious.  The  doc- 
tor still  named  it  a  decline,  but  gentle,  as  of  sleep 
stealing  on  imperceptibly.  "She  can't  recover,"  he 
told  Philip  in  so  many  words ;  "it  is  like  fine  old  lace 
wasting  into  mold,  thin  as  a  spider's  web,"  said  he. 
"and  I  believe  the  Gray  Tower  did  it.  Don't  attempt 
to  take  her  back  with  you.  If  the  people  saw  her 
ladyship,  they  'd  say  she  was  not  there  at  all,  but 
some  fairy  woman  from  Rathmorna." 

"I  got  my  hurt  at  Rathmorna,"  said  the  baronet, 
gloomily  smiling,  "and  the  same  night  my  mother 
came  to  me.  So  that  is  how  they  talk,  Driscoll?" 

"Foolishly,  indeed,"  said  the  surgeon,  "but  they 
would  be  for  putting  her  on  the  fire  to  bring  home 
the  rale  Lady  Liscarroll.  She  is  safe  here,  and  here 
she  should  be  left." 


STRICKEN  329 

Some  conversation  followed  between  the  young 
man  and  Miss  O'Connor.  "I  make  Yegor's  cottage 
over  to  you  freehold,"  she  said  with  her  serious 
smile.  "Your  mother  shall  not  be  moved.  She  has 
won  my  heart.  No,  not  a  syllable  on  that  subject. 
You  and  I,  Philip,  are  friends ;  there  can  be  no  ques- 
tion of  money  between  us." 

"But  you  have  lost  other  friends.  They  don't 
call  since — " 

"Let  them  stay  at  home,  then.  Ihave  made  your 
mother  less  unhappy ;  is  n't  that  enough  ?  The  ways 
of  county  families  are  nothing  to  me;  I  leave  my 
character  in  their  hands — better  fling  that  to  the 
wolves  than  one's  self.  Such  is  my  Russian  code  of 
honor,  Philip." 

"It  is  like  you,"  he  could  not  help  saying;  and 
his  sincerity,  unconquerable  sadness  giving  it  so  deep 
a  tone,  made  them  intimate  without  lessening  the 
reserve  which  had  always  hung  about  him.  Lis- 
aveta  would  have  talked  of  his  cousin;  she  thought 
so,  at  least,  in  spite  of  a  warning  shiver,  but  there 
was  no  way  into  the  black  marble  tomb  where  his 
secret  lay  unsunned.  Moreover,  the  invalid  had 
dropped  a  caution  in  time. 

"Philip  is  the  unluckiest  of  men,"  said  Lady  Lis- 
carroll,  with  pauses  of  faintness  to  punctuate  her 
admonitions.  "I  can't  be  sure  what  is  the  real  state 
of  things.  It  would  be  cruel  to  ask  him;  but  his 


330  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

cousin  has  quitted  Renmore — Joan,  my  innocent 
maid,  is  not  there  either.  One  distrusts  young  men 
that  write  love-songs  and  young  women  that  sing 
them.  So  inflammable — is  not  safe,  is  it?  Promise 
me  you  will  refrain  from  inquiries." 

"I  will  not  trouble  Philip,  certainly,"  answered  the 
girl.  "His  cousin — "  she  stopped,  and  was  glad  in 
the  dim  chamber  not  to  be  seen  blushing.  "I  have 
had  a  letter  from  Edmund." 

"Really,"  murmured  the  sick  woman,  "has  he  the 
face  to  write?  In  what  terms?  Humbly  or  de- 
fiantly? He  begs  your  forgiveness?" 

"No;  it  is  rather  a  formal  note — I  could  wish 
it  otherwise — dated  London;  and  he  sends  me 
the  papers  I  wanted,  about  those  Stauntons — how 
they  manage  their  property,  you  know.  But  in 
a  couple  of  words  he  concludes  by  saying  that  he 
has  left  Ireland  for  a  long  while,  and  he  bids  me 
good-by." 

"I  call  that  underhand,"  said  Lady  Liscarroll; 
"depend  upon  it  there  is  a  rat  behind  the  arras.  To 
go  in  a  hurry — then  the  vague  address,  London — no 
farewell  even  to  you,  my  dear,  generous  girl !  Why, 
it  is  unpardonable !" 

"I  wish  we  could  get  news  of  Joan,"  answered  the 
tender-hearted  Lisaveta;  "but  no  one  seems  to  have 
been  on  the  road  when  she  went.  At  least,  so  Yegor 


STRICKEN 


33 1 


tells  me.  To  push  inquiries  would  set  more  tongues 
in  motion — perhaps  do  harm." 

"My  son,  I  can  feel,  is  desperately  hurt.  Fancy  it. 
an  elopement,  a  moonlight  flitting — anything  bad 
you  please — from  within  his  gates,  as  if  he  had  de- 
coyed the  girl  and  the  old  man,  to  let  Master  Ed- 
mund work  his  wicked  will !  Spare  him  the  allu- 
sion. I  am  only  thankful  it  did  not  come  to  pass 
while  Joan  was  attending  on  me." 

"You  say,  then,  she  has  gone  with — with  your 
nephew?" 

The  lady  replied  in  a  feeble  tone,  "I  say  nothing, 
for  I  know  nothing,  but  appearances  are  black 
against  him." 

They  were,  and  would  be,  whatever  followed,  un- 
less the  baronet  should  explain.  But  if  he  had  been 
of  a  seldom-speaking  nature  in  times  past,  he  was  the 
image  of  silence  now.  The  land  itself  had  fallen 
under  a  kind  of  amazement;  stupor  was  in  all  eyes; 
and  Philip  seemed  less  peculiar  than  in  the  bright  old 
chatty  season  when  a  people  that  delight  in  talk, 
and  can  talk  admirably,  had  captivated  tourists  with 
their  humorous  eccentricities,  their  lambent  wit,  their 
inexhaustible  fun  and  not  unkindly  satire.  A  still- 
ness that  might  be  felt  settled  down  over  Ireland. 
Fiddling  and  dancing  stopped  dead;  there  was  no 
sound  of  the  old  fairy  music  from  rath  or  hillside; 


332  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

sports  fell  extinct  among  the  myriads  who  looked, 
in  a  fever-dream  of  despair,  upon  the  fields  which 
had  turned  to  plague-spots.  Rooted  in  their  sorrow 
to  the  soil,  what  could  they  do  but  shroud  their  heads 
at  last  and  die  speechless?  The  silence  of  the  cast- 
aways on  their  raft — a  world  of  waters  around  them ! 

At  such  a  time,  the  customary  bonds  were  loos- 
ened ;  in  so  huge  an  eclipse,  what  mattered  social  con- 
vention ?  There  was  leisure — too  much,  where  every 
minute  should  have  been  precious — but  no  tempta- 
tion to  blame  the  Russian  girl,  in  whose  house  a 
young  man,  single  and  marriageable,  had  become  a 
daily  inmate.  Lady  Liscarroll  ceased  to  be  a  theme 
of  indignation  or  surprise.  Will  Hapgood  might 
now  ride  openly — every  other  day,  if  he  chose — to 
Silverwood ;  his  cronies  had  something  else  to  think 
of  than  the  fiend  which  sat  on  his  crupper. 

Yet  they  did  not  think  to  any  purpose.  Nor 
did  their  more  sapient  elders.  The  Famine,  which 
starved  a  million  of  the  governed,  proved  in  letters 
of  blood  and  shame — in  cottages  that  were  burnt 
over  the  corpses  within  them  by  way  of  funeral  pyre ; 
in  pits  choked  with  the  dead ;  in  a  miasma  of  sickness 
spreading  until  the  very  air  was  diseased  with  it — 
that  the  governing  classes  did  not  know  how  to  gov- 
ern. Shall  we  say  that  the  Famine  created  this  an- 
archy ?  no,  but  everywhere  it  brought  anarchy  to  the 


STRICKEN  333 

face  of  day — such  a  day  as  men  call  the  Last  Judg- 
ment. That  judgment  had  now  fallen  upon  the 
Irish  peasant,  a  slave  during  centuries,  and  on  the 
Irish  gentleman,  who  held  his  land  by  the  tenure  of 
making  life  possible  to  his  serfs  and  dependants. 

Behold,  he  had  made  it  impossible — even  for  him- 
self! 

In  the  same  room  where  Miss  O'Connor  had 
talked  with  Edmund  and  her  agent  of  the  coming 
disaster,  she  was  seated  again,  on  this  wild  March 
morning.  Mr.  Nagle,  his  maps  outspread,  was 
marking  the  fields  and  farms  on  which  the  death-rate 
had  mounted  highest.  Sir  Philip,  at  the  window, 
listened  or  looked  out,  and  sometimes  threw  a  word 
over  his  shoulder. 

"We  can  do  no  more,"  said  the  agent;  "relief 
works  are  in  progress ;  the  people  get  soup  once  a  day 
by  your  orders — " 

"If  they  are  able  to  fetch  or  send  for  it,"  said 
Lisaveta.  "How  about  the  others  that  can't 
stir?" 

"Well,  we  want  an  army  of  relieving-officers," 
said  Mr.  Nagle.  "I  don't  know  where  they  are  to 
come  from.  It  is  a  new  idea  that  giving  money 
leaves  the  distress  as  great  as  ever." 

"But  it  is  true,"  she  said.  "People  can't  eat  shil- 
lings and  sixpences.  There  should  be  a  regular  mil- 


334  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

itary  service  as  in  a  besieged  city.  And  oh,  Mr. 
Nagle,  how  few  soldiers  of  charity  we  have! 
There  's  Glenmasson — five  or  six  hundred  people 
dying,  and  only  the  couple  of  clergymen  and  a  single 
doctor  to  see  they  get  nourishment." 

"Renmore  is  as  bad,"  flung  in  Philip;  "it  is  my 
own  place,  but  I  can  do  next  to  nothing.  Every  other 
house  has  some  one  in  it  at  the  last  gasp.  Have  you 
a  dead  cart  here  to  go  round  and  collect  the  corpses 
they  find  on  the  street  every  morning?  We  hired 
one  in  our  village — not  before  it  was  time.  It  never 
comes  back  empty." 

"The  people  die  off  like  sheep,"  said  Mr.  Nagle. 

"They  die  like  angels,"  answered  Lisaveta.  "Did 
you  ever  see  patience  so  beautiful  ?  When  they  can 
hardly  speak  from  hunger,  still  they  say  'God  is 
good.'  And  not  one  of  them  will  steal  the  food  he 
wants  so  sorely — they  go  down  into  the  deep, 
praying." 

"I  saw  ten  doors  shut  fast  in  Glenmasson  yester- 
day," observed  the  agent,  in  a  subdued  voice.  "The 
families  within  had  all  died  since  our  last  meeting 
here.  Three  of  those  cottages  would  have  to  be 
burnt,  and  the  bodies  within  them ;  coffins  could  not 
be  had,  nor  was  the  place  safe  from  infection." 

"Yes,  I  know.  They  were  telling  me  this  morn- 
ing that  Darby  Fitzmaurice,  the  big  wrestler — you 


STRICKEN  335 

remember  him,  Philip,  last  May  Day — was  dead 
with  the  hunger,  and  his-  wife  and  her  sister." 

"When  I  was  driving  hither  from  the  castle  yes- 
terday," said  Philip,  "I  could  count  at  least  twenty 
heaps  of  ashes  that  were  cabins,  and  inside  them — 
faugh !  what  is  the  use  of  talking  ?  The  country  is 
one  great  burying-place." 

"And  yet  we  hear  no  keen  raised  by  the  women; 
the  friends  and  relations  don't  follow  as  they  used 
when  the  funeral  is  seen  on  the  road,"  observed  Mr. 
Nagle.  "I  had  to  call  strangers  to  help  me,  not  five 
days  ago,  after  getting  poor  Tom  Bresnahan  into  the 
coffin  itself." 

"Worse  than  that.  Did  you  hear  of  the  dogs  in 
St.  Colman's  Churchyard,  and  the  thing  Frank  Hur- 
ley took  out  of  their  mouths?"  said  the  lady,  pale- 
faced. 

"No  wonder,  if  we  can't  dig  the  pits  deep  enough 
to  hold  thousands,"  replied  her  adviser.  "But 
we  're  like  an  army  struck  with  the  plague.  Every 
person  is  down  with  it." 

"Those  men  you  see  trying  to  make  roads — God 
save  the  mark!"  exclaimed  Philip,  "they  have  no 
strength  left  in  them.  Yet  they  must  work  before 
the  soup  is  ladled  out ;  and  they  struggle  against  one 
another  like  famished  lepers." 

"But  the  children — have  you  noticed  that  the  chil- 


336  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

dren  no  longer  play  in  the  street?  Not  a  sound  of 
their  voices,"  cried  Lisaveta;  "something  has  clean 
swept  them  away." 

"They  are  lying  huddled  on  top  of  one  another  by 
the  smokeless  hearth  and  in  dark  corners;  we  know 
that,"  returned  Philip.  "Aye,  thousands  of  them." 

"Yet  we  gentlefolks,  rent-receivers,  set  over  them 
to  guide  and  to  guard,  if  necessary,  to  feed  this  peo- 
ple, are  impotent  as  painted  idols,"  she  said,  with 
uncontrollable  emotion. 

The  agent  answered  her.  "My  dear  lady,  it  is 
the  English  landlord  refuses  to  abolish  the  Corn 
Laws ;  our  Irish  estates  are  mortgaged  up  to  the  hilt. 
Let  us  not  blame  ourselves  too  harshly.  You  are 
doing  all  in  your  power;  so  is  Sir  Philip." 

"Perhaps,"  she  replied  with  a  sigh;  "to  my 
thought  we  are  drones,  suddenly  commissioned  to 
make  honey  for  the  working-bees.  The  hive  is 
crammed  with  their  dead  bodies.  Don't  let  us 
boast.  Tried  and  found  wanting.  Write  that  on 
our  gravestones." 

"Well,  we  pay  for  it,"  said  Philip,  turning  round, 
so  as  to  exhibit  a  wasted  countenance  and  eyes 
deep  sunken  in  their  sockets.  "I  am  not  the  only 
one  by  scores.  But  I  may  tell  you,  Miss  O'Connor, 
and  you,  Mr.  Nagle,  as  an  old  friend  of  our  house, 
that  the  mortgages  on  my  property  have  been  bought 


STRICKEN  337 

up  by  some  unknown  person,  who  threatens  to  fore- 
close within  six  months.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  settle 
with  him;  and  I  see  the  end.  Our  family  will  part 
from  Renmore,  which  they  have  held  since  the  time 
of  Richard  I." 

Lisaveta  cried  out,  and  would  have  clasped  the 
hand  that  Philip  withdrew.  The  agent,  who  was 
not  less  moved,  said,  with  an  attempt  at  calmness, 
"Your  unknown  person  is  no  mystery,  or  I  have  a 
couple  of  blind  eyes.  He  is  our  old  acquaintance, 
Davy  Roche." 

"Who  will  evict  me,  as  he  did  Cathal  O'Dwyer," 
exclaimed  the  baronet,  laughing  unpleasantly.  "The 
fortune  of  war!  But  now,  Miss  Lisaveta,  you  un- 
derstand that  I  can  take  no  share  in  your  plans  of 
relief,  and  why,  if  I  am  an  idol,  Roche  is  the  idol- 
breaker;  he  means  to  pull  me  down.  The  estate  is 
entailed  on  my  cousin,"  he  continued  with  embar- 
rassment, "but  Edmund  has — "  he  stopped.  "That 
will  make  no  difference  in  the  end." 

"Is  Lady  Liscarroll  aware  that  you  are  threat- 
ened?" said  Miss  O'Connor,  looking  at  the  wan-faced 
young  man  with  an  unquiet  glance. 

"I  have  told  her,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  window 
again. 

"Ah,"  said  the  lady,  under  her  breath;  and  she  fell 
into  a  deep  study,  across  which  a  smile  darted.  "We 


338  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

will  break  off  now,  I  think,"  was  the  conclusion  of 
her  musing.  "But  you  should  have  told  me  first, 
Philip,"  she  added,  in  the  full  rich  tones  that  made 
her  sympathy  a  balm  to  wounded  spirits.  "I  don't 
agree  in  Mr.  Roche  taking  Renmore  estate  to  him- 
self. He  is  not  wanted  there,  and  the  Liscarrolls 
are." 

"We  have  had  notice  to  quit,"  replied  he;  "unless 
we  could  find  a  crock  of  gold  at  Rathmorna,  out  we 
go  at  Michaelmas.  We  shall  not  find  one." 

"Who  knows?  Who  knows?"  she  answered 
soothingly.  The  agent  marveled  that  his  young 
friend  did  not  speak  on  this  broad  hint;  but  as  if  a 
demon  held  him  speechless,  Philip  declined  to  unlock 
his  lips,  and  Mr.  Nagle  was  angered.  "The  man's 
blood  has  turned  to  water,"  he  thought. 

Was  it  so?  Lisaveta,  her  face  shining,  appeared 
to  have  caught  up  a  sudden  light,  which  dazzled,  yet 
did  not  displease  her. 

Walking  on  the  edge  of  her  exquisite  fairy-water, 
over  dry  golden  weeds,  by  and  by,  she  pieced  the 
matter  out.  And  a  long  skein  it  seemed,  with  many 
twists  and  tangles.  For  nearly  twelve  months  Lady 
Liscarroll  had  been  her  guest.  A  charming  guest, 
though  half  the  time  an  invalid,  and  only  now  con- 
valescent. That  charm  was  not  in  the  woman  alone, 
with  her  bright  talk  and  airy  reminiscences  of  a 


STRICKEN  339 

world  so  much  more  brilliant  than  the  neighborhood 
of  Airgead  Ross.  Unknown  to  Lisaveta,  this  doubt- 
ful situation  kept  alive  in  her  the  sentiment  of  living 
for  another,  without  which  she  would  have  con- 
demned herself  as  eating  an  idle  bread.  She  longed 
after  romance,  but  of  a  profound,  a  tragic  color ;  and 
the  sting  of  social  martyrdom  awoke  within  her  some 
strange  melody,  like  a  chant  of  austere  joy. 

Lady  Liscarroll  was  not  faultless;  the  girl  knew 
it,  but  she  felt  drawn  to  serve  those  who  would  try 
her,  even  to  the  utmost ;  and  what  that  woman  of  the 
world  set  down  as  an  effect  of  her  own  witcheries 
was  due  to  an  instinct,  not  rare,  though  difficult  to 
account  for,  that  dedicates  itself  to  pain  lest  it  be 
overcome  by  the  glamour  of  life.  This  young  girl, 
with  her  beauty,  wealth  and  health,  her  equable  tem- 
per and  warm  heart,  would  have  summed  up  her 
views  in  the  wise  man's  dictum :  "He  that  looks  on 
existence  as  aught  save  an  illusion  which  in  course 
of  time  breaks  its  own  spell,  is  always  its  fool."  She 
did  not  put  faith  in  the  things  which  she  saw:  she 
was  on  her  guard  not  to  be  taken  in  by  them.  Per- 
haps the  French  expression  would  best  interpret  Lis- 
aveta :  Elle  avail  le  besoin  de  souffrir.  But  religion 
came  to  the  support  of  her  temperament,  and  this 
singularly  unmodern  feeling  appeared  in  the  girl's 
meditations  to  be  a  virtue. 


346  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

Thus,  if  Lady  Liscarroll  played  on  the  nerves  of 
her  hostess  with  fingers  designing  mischief,  she 
awoke  other  chords  than  she  knew,  inaudible  to  her 
dainty  yet  unspiritual  ear.  They  might  seem  to 
make  Lisaveta  the  merest  slave,  since  all  she  asked 
was  to  suffer.  But  this  kind  of  victim  has  secret 
forces  and  a  depth  of  character,  for  which  no  world- 
liness  in  the  long  run  will  be  a  match.  That  her 
guest  was  scheming  she  did  not  imagine  until  some 
odd  and  scattered  tokens  fixed  themselves  on  her  at- 
tention. So  long  an  illness,  without  lapse  or  re- 
covery, was  a  strange  thing.  The  Driscolls  hardly 
improved  on  acquaintance.  And  Yegor's  keen  little 
Tartar  eyes,  which  were  everywhere,  had  seen  as 
in  cat's  light  a  phantom  outside  the  house  resem- 
bling Lady  Liscarroll,  when  the  afflicted  woman  was 
shut  up  in- her  chamber.  Had  this  disquieting  news 
any  background?  Even  so,  Lisaveta  was  loth  to 
act  upon  it.  She  needed  only  the  sight  of  Sir  Philip's 
overcast  features  to  kindle  her  enthusiasm  for  self- 
sacrifice  ;  a  grief  which  he  could  not  master  was  con- 
suming his  youth ;  what  would  be  the  added  burden 
if  his  mother  went  back  to  Renmore? 

Then  Miss  O'Connor  was  in  love  with  the  red- 
haired  Firbolg  of  Cathal.'s  description?  "I  love 
him,"  she  thought,  smiling  gravely,  as  her  eyes  took 
in  the  glory  of  the  afternoon,  spread  out  on  the  sea, 


STRICKEN  341 

"and  I  am  sorry  for  him;  perhaps  I  could  marry 
him;  but  the  love  they  talk  of  is  something  else. 
Why  did  he  blurt  out  in  that  abrupt  fashion,  before 
Mr.  Nagle,  the  story  of  his  mortgages  ? — his  death- 
wounds,  I  might  call  them.  It  was  a  warning,  and  a 
defiance.  Very  noble,  all  the  same.  Now  had  Lady 
Liscarroll  been  weaving  her  fine  nets  about  him,  as  I 
feel  their  threads  when  I  attempt  to  move  ?  I  know 
what  she  would  like?  Does  Philip?" 

Her  innocence,  though  flawless,  could  not  be  the 
schoolgirl's  unripe  fancy.  Lisaveta  was  well  up  in 
the  language  of  women;  she  caught,  and  sometimes 
practised,  its  half-tones;  the  shade,  the  innuendo 
of  an  accent,  rarely  escaped  her;  and  when 
Philip's  mother  associated  her  son  and  lifelong 
gratitude  in  the  same  breath,  it  was  much  as  if 
she  handed  to  her  friend  a  declaration  signed  with 
his  name. 

Of  mortgages,  foreclosures,  money,  she  had  never 
spoken;  perhaps  she  was  ignorant,  but  he  said  she 
knew ;  her  sentiment,  then,  rang  hard  and  metallic ; 
but,  after  all,  Renmore  cleared  of  its  encumbrances 
would  be  a  great  estate,  especially  if  Airgead  Ross 
were  thrown  in.  "No,  I  do  not  blame  Eleanor" — 
they  had  long  ago  reached  the  stage  of  Christian- 
naming  each  other — "it  is  right  she  should  drive  the 
best  bargain  for  her  son — she  has  hurt  him  enough ; 


342  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

— and  is  it — I  mean  would  it  be — a  bad  one  for  the 
bride?" 

Not  if  she  loved — that  other  way — with  a  pulse 
that  made  one  music  in  two  hearts.  "I  wish  I  knew 
what  had  come  to  Edmund !"  she  said,  and  the  words 
were  scarcely  thought  when  she  colored  violently. 
The  transparent  water,  Venus's  looking-glass,  over 
which  she  bent  down,  seemed  to  blush;  it  was  her 
eyes  that  created  a  vision  of  fire.  "But  he  has  not 
written;  he  is  cold  and  stern;  or  something — some- 
one— keeps  him  silent.  Did  he  take  poor  Joan 
away?  'You  can't  trust  these  ballad-singers,'  said 
Eleanor.  'Can  you  ?' ' 

The  voice  to  which  Lisaveta  had  always  given  ear 
— with  its  eternal  refrain,  "Thou  shalt  not  please 
thyself" — had  gained  strength  from  pride,  and  it  in- 
sisted now,  "Why  not  Philip  ?  It  is  a  made  match, 
in  the  public  rumor ;  Edmund  foresaw  it ;  this  morn- 
ing's announcement  was  a  declaration — not  Valen- 
tine's, with  pretty  speeches  on  one  knee,  but  Orson's, 
in  a  bearskin.  Honest,  supremely  frank,  and  fair. 
He  is  unhappy,  poor  and  valiant ;  who  is  there  to  be 
fond  of  the  lad?  What  better  could  a  woman  do 
than  comfort  him?" 

A  faint,  vanishing  echo  of  hours  once  heavenly 
seemed  to  flash  out  "Edmund"  from  a  dark  corner, 
and  Lisaveta  shook.  "I  might  be  sorry,"  she  an- 


STRICKEN  343 

swered  out  loud.  The  sudden  hint  terrified  her. 
For  a  minute  or  two  she  stood,  watching  the  clouds 
at  sundown — a  high  mountain-meadow,  sprinkled 
with  pansies,  yellow,  violet,  creamy-golden — and  the 
sad  sea-music  repeated  some  formidable  word  which 
she  strove  in  vain  to  understand.  No,  not  wholly 
in  vain ! 

"I  could  give  myself,  were  that  all,"  she  said  at 
last ;  "our  friends  here  think  it  is  done  already.  But 
I  must  be  clear.  In  that  disappearance  of  Edmund 
and  Joan — so  unlike  them  both — there  is  a  riddle  to 
be  seen  through ;  till  I  know  the  answer,  I  am  not  a 
free  woman.  To  my  own  feeling  I  am  not.  How 
did  I  let  the  child  slip  into  darkness  ?  Seven  months ! 
Our  troubles  all  came  together ;  the  spirit  died  within 
us.  And  their  secret  has  been  kept,  as  secrets  are  in 
Ireland — that  is  the  chain  of  silence  we  find  people 
can  never  break.  Well,  I  mean  to  break  it.  Let 
me  think  how." 

In  the  same  falling  twilight,  his  mother  was  re- 
buking Sir  Philip,  where  they  sat  in  her  room.  "You 
should  have  proposed  first,  and  explained  afterward, 
you  silly  boy,"  she  murmured  languidly,  yet  in  an 
undertone  of  decision:  "if  Lisaveta  consents,  what 
signifies  the  mortgage?  It  will  be  paid  off." 

"I.  explained,  because  I  shall  not  propose,"  replied 
he ;  "don't  let  it  worry  you,  mother.  You  say  I  am 


344  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

bound.  I  don't  see  it."  He  was  gentle  with  her, 
and  worn  out. 

"In  honor,  in  gratitude,"  she  answered  eagerly; 
"if  you  spoke  French,  I  could  tell  it  you  in  a  word." 

"Say  it  in  English.  You  want  us  to  marry  be- 
cause Mrs.  Hapgood  chatters." 

It  was  a  random  shot,  aimed  at  nothing  in  par- 
ticular; but  the  curtains  shivered  about  Lady  Lis- 
carroll.  "In  French,  people — Mrs.  Hapgood,  if  you 
like — would  say  the  dear  child's  reputation  was — 
compromised." 

"Byrne?" 

"By  you  and  me.  By  the  situation — by  all  that 
has  taken  place.  Philip,  you  really  should  try  to 
see  it  with  the  eyes  of  the  world.  You  are  bound  to 
make  the  offer;  then,  if  she  declines,  we  have  done 
our  duty.  Too  shy,  my  dear?  Give  me  leave,  and 
I  will  speak  for  you.  The  way  is  paved." 

"I  can't,"  he  said  with  a  groan.  "Why  did  we 
come  to  this  house?" 

"All  my  fault,"  was  the  contrite  answer,  in  a  voice 
he  never  could  resist. 

"Three  days — I  must  have  three  days'  reprieve," 
said  Philip,  struggling;  "you  don't  guess  what  you 
are  doing  to  a  man.  Compromised,  you  call  it. 
Ruined,  I  call  it.  No,  you  shall  not  speak  a  word  to 
her.  I  will  put  the  cord  round  my  neck  with  these 
hands." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AFTER    MANY    DAYS 

NO  condemned  man  thinks  the  time  long  between 
sentence  and  execution.  Philip's  reprieve  had 
run  out;  he  was  fixing  the  rope  and  taking  his  last 
free  look  at  the  world,  conscious  of  the  trapdoor 
underneath,  which  would  suddenly  give  way.  "I 
shall  speak  this  morning,"  he  thought,  and  felt  glad 
it  was  pouring  rain,  as  he  walked  up  from  his  her- 
mit's lodge  to  the  front  terrace  of  Silverwood.  He 
was  a  wreck  drifting  with  the  tide,  on  what  iron 
coast?  "Well,  she  can  have  me,"  said  his  cheerless 
meditation.  "I  have  told  her  no  lies.  But  it  's  hard 
on  the  girl;  why  did  n't  I  foresee  that?" 

Rain  in  the  woods,  veiling  the  hills  in  gray,  soak- 
ing the  spirit  too,  until  it  felt  limp  and  downcast — 
hopeless  rain;  but  when  Philip  came  up  to  the  en- 
trance he  beheld  a  carriage  and  pair,  Lisaveta's 
coachman  on  the  box,  and  the  lady  herself,  cloaked 
against  the  weather,  giving  directions. 

"Driving  on  a  day  like  this?"  he  ejaculated; 
345 


346  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"surely  not  far."  His  eyes  lightened ;  the  rope  about 
his  neck  fell  into  a  looser  coil. 

She  answered  him  steadily.  "You  afraid  of  rain, 
Sir  Philip?  No?  Neither  am  I.  A  journey — I 
can't  say  when  I  return.  In  a  week  or  less." 

"My  mother  will  miss  you."  He  could  not  bring 
himself  to  say  anything  else. 

"Take  good  care  of  her;  the  place  is  at  your  dis- 
posal," she  replied,  as  he  helped  her  into  the  carriage. 
"I  have  left  a  note  to  explain." 

Her  silence  on  the  purpose  or  destination  which 
called  her  out  in  this  atrocious  weather  made  it  im- 
possible to  ask  questions.  They  shook  hands ;  Jack 
Dennehy  flourished  his  whip;  the  horses  went  away 
at  a  smart  trot. 

Philip  leaped  down  from  the  scaffold,  and  flung 
the  hangman's  rope  to  Lucifer.  "I  will  not  do  it," 
he  said  to  himself  again  and  again.  "What  an  es- 
cape! Now  I  mean  to  take  a  day  off  at  Renmore. 
Back  on  Wednesday." 

Calling  for  Miss  O'Connor's  Russian  servant,  he 
announced  his  intention,  and  inquired  if  Lady  Lis- 
carroll  could  see  him  before  he  went.  In  a  few  min- 
utes Yegor  brought  him  a  pencilled  note.  His 
mother  was  going  on  well ;  let  him  get  a  change  of 
scene — three  or  four  days  at  home. 

"Tell  her  ladyship  I  will  be  here  on  Saturday,"  he 
said,  and  so  left  it. 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS  347 

Before  noon  he  was  marching  on  Renmore  strand, 
the  ruins  of  the  Gray  Tower  on  the  rock  above  him, 
Joan's  deserted  cottage  almost  within  sight.  And  ah, 
the  bitterness  of  it  all ! 

He  had  made  no  attempt  at  pumping  Yegor; 
that  hydraulic  process  would  never  yield  a  draught. 
Doubtless  the  Kalmuck  knew  on  what  business  Lis- 
aveta  was  traveling;  he  ruled  the  house,  held  his 
tongue,  and  was  impenetrable.  A  word  from  Yegor 
at  this  moment  would  have  astonished  Sir  Philip. 
Still  more,  could  he  have  overheard  the  little  con- 
versation between  Miss  O'Connor  and  her  body- 
guard two  days  previously. 

"If  your  Excellence  will  tell  me  whether  you  are  to 
marry  this  Irish  gentleman,"  Yegor  had  said  to  his 
mistress,  "I  shall  know  my  duty.  Every  one  says  so, 
except  you,  Lisaveta  Carlovna,  and  I  am  bewildered." 

He  was  studying  her  serious  eyes.  "Yegor/'  she 
answered,  not  flinching,  "it  may  turn  out  as  every- 
body says.  But  until  I  have  found  Joan  O'Dwyer, 
dead  or  alive,  I  cannot  decide." 

"She  must  be  found?"  asked  the  man,  "must,  you 
say,  Excellence?  And  how  if  the  other  gentleman, 
Mr.  Edmund,  had  run  away  with  her?" 

"Even  then,  I  have  to  be  sure  of  it,"  said  Lisaveta, 
putting  a  hand  to  her  side. 

He  reflected.     "I  thought,  as  you  were  going  to 


348  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

take  Sir  Philip,  the  best  thing  was  to  let  this  girl 
drop  out  of  the  dance.  There  is  one  man  who  may 
know  where  she  went — her  lover,  Felim,  the  fisher 
lad.  I  will  go  down  to  Renmore  and  see  what  can 
be  discovered." 

He  took  his  own  means  with  Felim  that  night — 
made  him  drunk,  and  got  all  the  lad  knew,  which 
was  not  a  great  deal.  Next  day  he  informed  Miss 
O'Connor:  "The  old  Cathal  and  his  daughter  said 
they  were  going  to  a  place  named  Kilmallock. 
Whether  they  did,  O'Riordan  knows  no  more  than 
the  man  that  is  dead.  But  he  says  Joan  never  told  a 
lie  in  her  life." 

"I  will  go  to  Kilmallock,  then,"  answered  his  mis- 
tress. "Get  everything  ready.  I  start  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

She  was  now  on  the  road  alone,  separated  after 
many  months  from  Lady  Liscarroll,  with  a  sense  of 
deliverance  and  a  growing  clearness  of  mind,  which 
boded  ill  for  the  Renmore  marriage.  Edmund's 
figure  revived;  his  gay  and  tender  musings  aloud, 
his  touches  of  poetry  lighting  up  the  dull  everyday, 
pleaded  for  him  in  undertones.  Would  a  nature  so 
passionate  and  chivalrous  belie  itself,  delude  an  old 
comrade  like  the  schoolmaster,  and  entrap  a  harmless 
child?  Men,  indeed,  were  strange  beasts,  "but  he 
is  not  proved  guilty  yet,"  she  concluded. 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS  349 

The  journey  lay  through  scenes  of  desolation  un- 
speakable. Blinding  rain;  but  men  like  skeletons 
at  work  on  the  high  roads;  and  wherever  the  car- 
riage stopped,  women  gathered  round  it,  clamoring, 
with  children  half  dead  in  their  arms.  When  the 
rain  cleared,  a  sickly  sunshine  fell  upon  the  cabins; 
hundreds  of  them  were  half  thrown  down,  or  burnt, 
and  long  rows  of  others  silent  as  the  grave,  their 
doors  shut,  no  sound  from  within ;  but  Lisaveta  well 
knew  that  their  inmates  were  starving  in  blank  des- 
pair. It  seemed  as  though  she  were  driving  be- 
tween the  beds  of  an  immense  hospital.  Sick  chil- 
dren she  saw  wherever  a  cottage  door  was  open,  but 
on  those  miles  and  miles  of  road  none  were  playing 
about.  Long  before  the  day  was  done,  she  had  given 
away  all  her  free  money;  nothing  but  the  severest 
resolution  held  her  from  scattering  the  rest  among 
these  miserable  crowds.  "I  have  to  find  Joan,"  she 
murmured,  "it  is  my  vow;  too  much  time  has  been 
lost  already."  But  her  eyes  and  heart  were  full. 

On  the  second  day  a  bright,  rather  chill,  weather 
made  the  roads  less  tedious;  she  was  moving  over 
the  gentle  green  slopes  of  a  land  even  then  devoted 
to  pasture,  and  the  people  appeared  to  be  less  miser- 
able; but  at  every  half  mile  a  funeral  met  her,  or 
was  visible  across  the  meadows,  and  the  silence  ap- 
palled with  its  suggestions  of  universal  famine.  Her 


350  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

carriage  was  drawing  near  Kilmallock.  She  could 
see  the  fine  old  ruins  of  church  and  castle  a  little  be- 
yond the  town,  their  delicate  tracery  and  lofty  walls 
showing  against  a  sky  of  great  purity,  blue  and  cold. 
All  at  once  her  voice  startled  the  driver.  He  turned 
on  his  seat  and  perceived  that  Lisaveta  was  stand- 
ing up,  pale  and  tremulous.  "Stop,  stop,"  she  cried, 
"no  further !  Oh !  I  have  seen  him !" 

Jack  Dennehy  pulled  up,  while  the  lady  sank,  al- 
most fainting,  on  her  cushions.  What  had  she  seen 
to  give  her  that  fright?  He  looked.  "God  sind 
I  may  live!"  he  cried,  blessing  himself,  "if  't  is  not 
ould  O'Dwyer  breaking  stones  on  the  road !  Wisha, 
wisha!  did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  the  like  of  that? 
And  he  the  finest  scholar  in  Munster!  Oh,  God 
help  us!" 

"Miss  O'Connor  made  but  two  leps  of  it,"  said 
Jack  afterward,  and  was  holding  Cathal's  wrists,  in 
a  bewilderment  of  joy  and  grief.  "Oh,  you  wicked 
man,  why  did  n't  you  write  to  me?"  she  cried;  "you 
dreadful —  But  where  is  Joan?  Take  me  to  Joan 
at  once." 

There  came  no  answer — a  warm  tear  fell  on  the 
schoolmaster's  hand ;  he  wiped  it  shyly  away. 

"Merciful  Father,  she  is  not  dead !"  exclaimed  the 
girl;  "don't  tell  me  that  bright,  loving  creature  is 
dead.  Cathal,  won't  you  speak  to  me?" 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS  351 

A  number  of  the  gaunt  shadows  had  come  round 
them,  leaving  their  work,  if  work  it  could  be  called ; 
they  were  bloodless  and  faint,  as  beings  from  the  dim 
under-world,  so  starved  that  they  showed  only  a 
slight  curiosity,  while  every  one  of  them  held  out  a 
bony  hand  for  alms. 

"Speak,  my  dear  O'Dwyer,"  she  insisted;  "don't 
leave  me  in  this  agony.  What  has  become  of  Joan  ? 
You  know  me;  surely  you  have  not  forgotten  Air- 
gead  Ross?" 

At  that  he  pulled  himself  together,  staggered  to  a 
heap  of  stones  by  the  roadside,  and  sat  down  on  it, 
wiping  his  forehead. 

"I  'm  ashamed  to  be  seen  by  one  that  knows  me," 
he  said,  his  face  downward.  "This  year  and  last  we 
had  Beg's  bad  world — 't  was  a  prognosis  of  these 
very  times  that  ancient  wizard  made  to  King  Diar- 
muid  at  Tara — men  in  bonds,  women  free,"  with  a 
glint  of  his  old  satirical  manner,  looking  up  at  her, 
but  subdued  immediately;  "winds  many,  wet  sum- 
mer, green  corn;  lean  cattle,  scant  milk;  the  poor 
burdensome  in  every  place;  you  may  say,  indeed,  a 
world  withered." 

"But  Joan — let  me  hear  about  Joan.  Why  did 
you  hide  yourselves  from  us  ?" 

"It  was  my  girl's  desire.  She  would  not  permit 
me  to  address  your  ladyship.  'We  gave  the  back  of 


352  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

our  hand  to  Renmore,'  she  said  always.  Kilmallock 
is  a  poor  place,  ma'am.  All  the  Latin  and  Greek 
you  ever  put  your  tongue  to  would  n't  buy  a  piggin 
of  buttermilk.  'T  is  that  sent  me  breaking  stones; 
and  look  now  at  my  hands.  How  could  I  form  a 
letter  with  those  welts  on  my  fingers  ?" 

"You  could  not,  poor  man,"  she  answered,  "how 
indeed  ?  But  where  can  I  meet  Joan  ?" 

"We  came  hither,"  he  said,  following  his  own  re- 
flections, heedless  that  he  was  torturing  her,  "to  find 
Sheila — a  woman  I  married  to  my  own  discomfiture 
— no  credit  to  us  at  all.  We  found  her  without 
searching,  like  the  stitch  in  your  side.  The  wake- 
ness  took  her  limbs  from  under  her,  and  now  she  is 
as  gray  as  a  badger,  and  her  good  looks  gone.  In- 
deed, I  would  n't  be  surprised  was  she  to  die  on  us. 
I  forgive  her  what  she  did.  He  's  in  Erebus  that  did 
it — or  lower,  maybe.  Well,  we  must  all  die." 

"Joan  is  nursing  her  inside  there,"  said  one  of  the 
bystanders,  pointing  to  a  hovel  down  the  road ;  "you 
won't  get  a  sinsible  word  from  him,  my  lady.  He  is 
like  that  half  the  time,  and  the  other  half  he  is  cry- 
ing; but  the  tears,  I  think,  come  aisy  to  all  of  us, 
we  're  as  wake  as  kittens.  Would  you  have  a  penny 
about  you,  my  lady,  you  could  spare  a  poor  boy?" 

"A  rose  noble,  a  mark,  or  an  angel  ?"  Cathal  took 
him  up.  "An  angel,  above  all  ?  How  much  was  it  ? 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS  353 

I  forget  entirely.  'T  is  long  since  we  have  seen  or 
felt  those  coins.  Soup  is  what  we  get  when  our  pile 
of  stones  is  broke  small;  but  sometimes  I  think  hot 
water  with  grase  in  it  would  give  more  nourish- 
ment." 

"Leave  the  stone-breaking,  and  show  me  into  your 
little  place,"  said  Miss  O'Connor;  "every  minute  is 
an  hour  till  I  see  Joan." 

"Fugit  irreparabile  tempus — how  often  I  made 
the  boys  construe  that — and  we  hear  and  don't  heed 
till  the  agent  is  at  the  door,"  answered  Cathal,  put- 
ting on  his  tattered  blue  coat.  "Joan,  my  dear 
madam,  is  not  as  well  as  I  could  like;  she  has  food 
enough,  would  she  ate  it,  but  she  does  be  always 
giving  it  from  her.  Unless  my  eyes  desave  me,  she 
has  a  poor  color,  and  little  flesh  on  her  bones.  I  'm 
not  strong  myself." 

His  step  was  sd  uncertain  that  Lisaveta  made 
him  get  into  the  carriage,  and  took  her  place  beside 
him. 

"What  had  you  to  eat  this  day  ?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  not  ateing  but  drinking  I  'd  call  it,"  he  said, 
with  the  flicker  of  a  smile ;  "we  have  the  soup,  as  thin 
as  it  can  be  made;  it  houlds  out  longer  that  way. 
Ateing  is  gone  out  of  fashion  with  us ;  our  digestive 
apparatus  would  not  be  able  for  it." 

The  cabin  was  sunk  several  feet  below  the  road, 
23 


354  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

and  its  damp  thatch  garlanded  with  long  green  weeds 
made  it  like  a  bee-hive  to  look  at. 

"Mother  and  daughter,  mother  and  daughter," 
said  Cathal,  as  he  got  down ;  "you  may  enter  without 
knocking,  ma'am;  they  won't  hear  you." 

So  it  seemed,  for  when  Lisaveta  stood  in  the 
gloom,  almost  touching  her,  Joan  gave  no  sign  of 
life.  She  was  seated  on  a  chair  without  a  back,  be- 
side a  press-bed,  on  which  lay  a  moaning  but  not 
restless  figure. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  dear?"  said  her  visitor;  "you 
can't  see  me  in  this  light.  But  my  voice — my  voice 
is  not  strange  to  you,  Joan?" 

Putting  out  her  arms,  she  took  the  girl  tenderly 
and  lifted  her  up.  Joan  gave  a  low  cry,  such  as  you 
might  hear  from  some  wounded  creature  in  the 
brush,  not  loud  or  piercing,  but  pitiful  exceedingly. 
And  then  she  let  herself  be  caught  to  Miss  O'Con- 
nor's bosom. 

They  were  silent,  except  for  the  sound  of  tears,  a 
long  while. 

"Give  your  mother  a  drink,"  said  Cathal,  quietly. 
"She  is  thirsting  for  it." 

"I  will  give  it;  do  you  sit  down,  Joan,"  said  the 
young  lady,  taking  the  coarse  white  mug  and  putting 
it  to  the  patient's  lips  as  well  as  she  could  in  that 
position.  A  pair  of  intense  gray  eyes,  blazing  with 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS  355 

fever,  unciosed,  and  seemed  to  inquire  who  it  was. 
Lights  under  snow-white  hair,  in  a  transparent,  still 
handsome  face,  which  had  long  been  drained  of  its 
vitality.  She  must  once  have  walked  in  all  the  pride 
of  strength  and  comeliness — it  was  Joan  rapt  into  old 
age,  the  ghost  of  herself,  not  utterly  undone,  though 
death's  hand  lay  upon  her. 

"How  long  have  you  been  nursing  here?  Ah, 
but,  Joan,"  her  friend  broke  out,  "it  was  cruel  to  run 
from  us — why  did  you  ?" 

With  an  effort,  clearing  some  painful  mist  from 
her  eyes,  the  girl,  in  a  singularly  thin  voice,  man- 
aged to  say,  "Are  you  by  yourself,  traveling?" 

"All  by  myself,"  replied  Lisaveta ;  "I  thought  you 
would  like  it  better.  No  one  knows.  Trust  me. 
Oh,  you  can.  There  are  some  questions — should 
you  feel  strong  enough  to  take  a  drive  with  me  ?" 

"I  could  n't  be  far  from  mother,"  she  said.  "He 
is  always  asleep  if  I  lave  her  to  him ;  and  the  neigh- 
bors have  their  own  sick." 

"Well,  the  coachman  shall  take  your  father  a  drive. 
Come,  Mr.  O'Dwyer,"  shaking  him  gently,  "if  Den- 
nehy — you  know  Dennehy — has  the  money,  will  you 
show  him  where  to  buy  food  and  drink  ?  And  will 
you  bring  the  doctor  back  with  you?" 

"Dr.  Quinn,  is  it?"  answered  Cathal.  "He  has, 
at  the  lowest  computation,  two  thousand  five  hun- 


356  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

dred  patients;  and  he  knows  no  more  01  healing- 
herbs  than  the  child  died  yesterday.  Potions,  pills 
and  drugs  is  what  he  lives  by ;  I  wish  I  could  say  as 
much  of  his  sick — the  poor  gommels!  However,  I 
will  do  your  bidding.  Tell  me,  before  I  go,  has  Joan 
the  fine  blush  on  her  she  used  to  have  when  every 
boy  in  Renmore — " 

"Joan  will  be  herself  soon — never  fear,"  said  Lis- 
aveta,  hastily,  "but  do  you  go  without  delay." 

Leading  him  out,  she  gave  Dennehy  his  orders, 
saw  Cathal  on  the  box  by  his  side,  and  came  back 
into  the  stifling  cottage. 

"May  we  sit  with  the  door  open?"  she  asked. 
"The  air  is  close." 

"It  makes  her  cough,"  answered  the  girl.  "I  sit 
here  and  I  do  be  drowsy.  We  can  open  it  once  in 
a  while." 

"How  thin  you  are !"  said  Miss  O'Connor,  kneel- 
ing and  putting  an  affectionate  arm  about  the  frail 
creature.  "Is  it  true  you  give  away  the  food  you 
should  be  taking?" 

"We  are  not  so  badly  provided  as  most,"  she  said. 
"When  I  came  here,  seven  months  ago,  I  had  my 
strength,  and  I  could  earn.  Dr.  Quinn  was  like 
an  angel  guardian  to  us — till  I  found  where  the 
money  came  from.  Then,  indeed,  we  could  not 
take  it." 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS  357 

"Whose  money  was  it,  Joan?  Believe  me,  I  am 
not  asking  from  idle  curiosity.  The  happiness  of 
more  than  one  depends  on  your  answer." 

"I  would  be  the  last  to  make  mischief;  won't  I 
soon  be  gone  out  of  this  myself?"  she  said.  Her 
eyes  smiled  even  in  that  gloom.  "And  surely  he 
meant  neither  hurt  nor  harm  to  us." 

"Who  meant  no  harm?  Who  was  it  sent  money 
you  refused?" 

"I  never  thought  but  his  heart  was  to  your- 
self, Miss  O'Connor,"  she  returned.  "What  else 
would  it  be?  Don't  trust  a  word  from  their  lips  if 
they  say  different.  Many  's  the  tale  is  told,  and 
never  a  true  one." 

"He,  and  he,  and  he!  Can't  you  put  a  name  on 
the  man?"  said  her  friend,  more  and  more  agitated. 
"Let  us  stand  in  the  light  where  I  may  see  your  face, 
dear." 

She  drew  the  girl  across  that  mean  threshold,  and 
a  flood  of  dazzling  white  radiance  fell  upon  her 
threadbare  gown  and  her  features  above  it,  framed 
in  dark  ringlets.  Lisaveta  repressed  a  cry.  The 
beauty  she  had  known  was  still  there,  but  ghastly, 
spectral,  subdued  to  a  paleness  of  death — as  if  an 
outline  sketched  on  thin  paper,  just  purple  where  the 
lips  should  be.  A  fixed  languor  weighed  upon  the 
eyelids.  Joan  seemed  unable  to  stand. 


358  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"Oh,  you  are  dying  like  the  rest — oh,  dying !"  was 
her  friend's  word,  and  they  clung  together. 

"Please  God !"  answered  the  girl,  not  much  moved. 

An  exclamation  reached  them  from  within.  "I  'm 
here,  mother,"  replied  Joan.  "What  is  it?" 

They  turned  in  again.  The  figure  on  the  press- 
bed  muttered  something  inarticulate,  and  drank 
eagerly  of  the  water  Joan  held  down  to  her.  "Dra- 
ming,  draming,"  said  the  woman  in  her  sleep. 
"Cathal,  would  you  strike  your  wife — would  you?" 

"I  must  stay  here,"  said  Joan  faintly,  "but  why 
should  you,  Miss  O'Connor?  'T  is  plain  now  that 
the  three  of  us  won't  be  troubling  the  neighbors  long. 
Go,  in  God's  name;  the  sickness  is  taking." 

"Without  you,  Joan,  I  will  never  go.  They  must 
come  with  us,  of  course.  What  do  I  care  if  the  sick- 
ness is  catching  ?" 

"I  'd  think  worse  of  you  did  you  take  harm,  than 
of  all  the  world,"  cried  the  poor  girl;  "no,  indeed, 
we  could  not  return  to  Renmore.  Lave  us  to  God, 
and  yourself  go  out  of  this." 

"Cruel — you  are,  dear — unkind  to  me,"  said  Lis- 
aveta,  with  tears  in  her  voice.  "My  own  sister,  let 
us  bare  our  hearts  to  each  other,"  she  continued  in 
Irish,  "I  know  our  troubles  are  the  same.  Tell  me 
who  made  you  leave  the  place." 

"If  I  put  the  blame  on  Mr.  Edmund  Liscarroll, 
would  you  think  I  was  shaping  lies?" 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS  359 

"You  were  always  truth  itself,"  answered  the 
lady,  breathing  fast;  "he  got  you  to  run  away  then 
— and  he  sent  you  money  afterward?  Don't  mind 
me,  it  is  nothing — I  want  air."  She  threw  the  door 
open,  and  was  going  out,  when  the  other  caught  hold 
of  her  dress. 

"No,  no,  you  have  n't  half  the  story !  Mother  of 
God,  will  I  be  always  in  this  grief  and  my  heart 
split  ?  I  do  blame  Mr.  Edmund ;  he  ran  a  knife  into 
my  breast.  But  you — I  see  you  never  got  a  true 
word  from  that  coaxer,  with  all  his  songs  and 
speeches." 

"He  was  in  love  with  you,"  said  Miss  O'Connor, 
steadying  herself  to  bear  the  blow  which  was  coming 
at  last. 

"With  me?"  Joan  laughed  incredulously.  "They 
say  women  are  looking-glasses,  and  every  lover's 
face  is  seen  in  their  eyes,  shining  bright.  You  will 
not  find  Mr.  Edmund  in  mine." 

"Then  how?  Then  why?  You  are  tying  the 
wizard's  knot  about  me,  Joan;  do  you  call  to  mind 
last  May,  when  your  father  bound  us  all  in  one  coil  ? 
But  what  brought  Edmund  into  your  story?" 

Joan  pointed  to  the  sleeping  woman.  "He  met 
my  mother,  and  gave  us  the  news.  I  persuaded  my 
father  to  let  bygones  be  bygones,  to  come  and  do 
the  best  we  could  for  her." 

"Well,  but  do  you  think  he  did  wrong  in  telling 


360  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

you?  Was  that  all?  Joan,  you  are  hiding  some 
secret  from  me.  How  can  I  get  you  to  trust  me? 
I  will  keep  nothing  back  myself — no,  not  the  deepest 
fold  in  my  heart.  Where  shall  I  begin?  Shall  I 
say  that  Lady  Liscarroll  wants  me  to  take  Sir 
Philip?" 

The  pale  white  mask  flushed  crimson  in  her  sight ; 
Joan  held  to  the  press-bed,  which  shook  violently. 
It  was  impossible  for  the  other  to  continue  her  nar- 
rative, and  she  stopped,  certain  confused  lights  strug- 
gling within  her. 

"Did  he  ask  you  himself?"  inquired  Joan,  a  bitter 
taste  in  her  mouth. 

"Not  up  till  now.  He  appears  to  have  lost  all 
courage;  that  makes  me  feel  for  him.  But  if  he 
does — my  dear,  I  could  not  say  it  except  to  you — 
convince  me  that — that  the  other  is  unworthy — " 

"You  would  take  Philip?"  interrupted  the  girl. 

"I  would ;  not  because  I  am  fond  of  him ;  I  can't 
explain  all  that ;  nor  does  it  matter.  See  now,  Joan, 
you  must  be  sincere — open  as  the  day — I  have  been 
so  to  you." 

At  this  moment  a  quavering  voice  came  from  the 
bed.  "Lies — God  forgive  me — I  tould  Cathal  many 
a  one.  What  good  was  it  to  me?  My  dear  girl, 
spit  it  out,  and  God  will  be  thankful  to  you." 

So  unearthly  was  the  admonition,  as  from  inside 


AFTER    MANY    DAYS  361 

a  sepulchral  vault,  that  they  exchanged  looks  of 
amazement.  "She  is  right,"  whispered  Lisaveta,  "I 
must  know  all." 

"Much  or  little,  I  will  let  it  go  from  me,"  said 
Joan,  her  mind  made  up.  "If  you  will  take  the  man 
you  gave  love  to,  't  is  Edmund  Liscarroll.  He  never 
did  a  thing  you  need  be  ashamed  to  hear." 

"And  Philip?"  insisted  the  other,  striving  in  a 
dim  and  cloudy  dawn  to  catch  the  true  outlines  of 
a  landscape  now  unrolled  at  her  feet. 

"I  gave  him  back  his  promise,"  said  the  girl,  weep- 
ing; "he  would  not  give  me  mine.  But  he  is  free." 

As  though  clouds  and  stars  had  vanished  together 
and  all  the  heavens  were  pearly  white,  the  revelation 
came.  "Oh,  you  wonder!"  cried  her  friend;  "you 
gave  back  Philip's  promise?  Here  you  have  fled  to 
escape  him?  But  do  you  know  that  this  is  to  die  a 
hundred  deaths  for  his  sake  ?" 

"He  could  never  take  a  poor  oinseach  like  me  up 
to  his  castle;  Mr.  Edmund  burnt  that  into  me. 
'T  was  foolishness  in  the  two  of  us.  I  returned  the 
lock  of  hair,  and  he  threw  it  upon  the  running 
water.  Maybe  he  did  well."  She  could  say  no 
more  then. 

"Your  heart  is  bleeding  ever  since,"  was  Lisa- 
veta's  comment,  to  which  no  reply  came.  But  old 
Sheila  was  dreaming  aloud,  and  her  broken  sentences 


362  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

mingled  the  names  of  Cathal  and  the  man  Macklin 
with  whom  she  strayed  from  her  duty.  "Macklin 
— Macklin,"  repeated  the  ghostly  voice,  "I  have  no 
right  to  him,  nor  he  to  me.  There  's  a  poor  sowl  we 
are  tearing  between  us.  The  red  dogs  could  n't  do 
more  to  it." 

Her  daughter,  overpowered  by  all  she  had  gone 
through  in  the  last  hour,  sat  leaning  against  the  mud 
wall,  Lisaveta's  arms  round  her. 

"Was  I  the  stone  image  of  the  girl  they  thought 
like  me,  in  your  house,"  she  said  after  several  min- 
utes, "I  would  n't  be  suffering;  but  under  the  sod 
I  '11  have  peace.  I  have  spun  every  thread  of  it  now 
for  you.  Take  it,  and  don't  be  hard  to  Mr.  Ed- 
mund." 

"We  have  lost  him,  I  fear ;  it  is  not  known  where 
he  is  gone,"  replied  Miss  O'Connor,  despondently; 
but,  plucking  up  a  spirit,  she  added :  "Your  courage 
puts  me  to  the  blush.  I  see  my  way  now.  As  for 
Philip — yes,  he  ought  to  make  you  his  wife.  He 
ought,  Joan.  He  shall.  I  take  you  and  yours  with 
me  to  Airgead  Ross.  We  will  start  as  soon  as  your 
mother  can  be  removed.  No  murmuring ;  it  is  right 
you  should  go  back,  under  my  protection.  Who 
can  hurt  you,  silly  child  ?  This  has  made  us  sisters. 
Not?  We  two  poor  things  with  our  lost  lovers," 
she  ended,  attempting  gaiety ;  "I  say  we  are  a  pair  of 


AFTER   MANY   DAYS  363 

widows,  and  we  will  keep  house  together.  I  hear 
the  carriage ;  your  father  has  come  back." 

Cathal  was  at  the  door,  a  little  brighter  than  he 
went,  with  packages  too  heavy  for  his  trembling 
hands.  Dennehy  would  have  helped  to  carry  them 
in;  but  that  was  Miss  O'Connor's  share,  bringing 
a  crowd  off  the  highway  as  soon  as  they  caught  sight 
of  this  large  relief.  She  had  to  steel  her  heart 
against  the  poor  shadows.  "There  is  a  woman 
dying  within,"  she  said,  and  they  dispersed  silently. 
O'Dwyer  had  brought  a  message  from  the  doctor's 
wife.  Mr.  Quinn  was  miles  away,  distributing  food 
and  medicine  to  his  innumerable  sick ;  but  would  the 
lady  put  up  at  Sarsfield  House  while  staying  in  Kil- 
mallock  ?  It  seemed  the  wisest  thing  to  do. 

"Yes,  I  will  drive  there,"  she  answered,  pressing 
his  cold  hand.  "We  have  been  chattering  like  mag- 
pies, Cathal,  while  you  were  out,  and  to-morrow,  or 
the  day  after,  if  Dr.  Quinn  allows,  I  take  you  all  with 
me  to  Airgead  Ross." 

"God  be  with  my  shovel  and  pick-axe,  then !"  he 
cried,  looking  hard  at  her.  "You  are  in  airnest,  I 
hope.  I  could  wield  a  ferule  with  any  scholar,  from 
Quintilian  down, but  at  breaking  stones  I'm  no  prod- 
igy. My  daughter  will  revive  in  her  native  air.  But 
what  is  come  to  her  now?"  he  cried,  aghast,  for 
Joan  had  fallen  in  a  faint  across  her  mother's  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WIDOW    AND    WIFE 

ASilverwood  no  one  had  the  least  guess  why  Miss 
O'Connor  was  gone,  nor  how  long  she  would 
be  away.  Even  Yegor  did  not  know.  "Perhaps  a 
week  or  ten  days.  My  orders  were  to  tell  Lady  Lis- 
carroll  at  least  a  week;"  such  was  the  message  he 
sent  in  by  Dr.  Driscoll  to  the  invalid.  Sir  Philip 
was  always  at  his  castle ;  and  on  the  Thursday  a  note 
reached  him  in  his  mother's  handwriting,  to  the 
effect  that  she  felt  much  better,  though  still  feeble, 
and  she  hoped  he  would  enjoy  and  prolong  the 
change  of  air  he  was  taking.  In  the  lines  of  this 
epistle  no  stranger  would  have  detected  a  tremulous 
pen;  they  ran  evenly;  the  letters  were  formed  with 
as  much  rapidity  as  elegance. 

"She  has  an  undaunted  spirit,"  observed  her  son, 
laying  it  down;  "after  an  illness  which  would  have 
finished  any  other  woman,  her  pulse  must  be  less  ir- 
regular than  mine." 

Enjoyment  for  this  vexed  and  tempest-driven  soul 
his  mother  could  not  have  expected,  if  her  studies 

364 


WIDOW   AND   WIFE  365 

had  been  as  close  of  all  that  regarded  his  temper  as 
during  the  far  past  days  when  they  sat  in  the  High 
Room,  captives  of  one  great  crime.  But  all  she  saw 
was  the  near  success  of  plans  she  had  obstinately 
cherished ;  and  Philip  was  the  unlikeliest  of  mortals 
to  wear  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve.  Miss  O'Connor's 
departure  seemed  to  him  life  from  the  dead.  In  im- 
agination he  was  always  lying  on  the  grave  of  his 
murdered  love — weeping  the  inward  tears  that  distil 
from  the  soul — when  he  thought  how  Joan  had  cut 
with  a  single  stroke  the  ties  that  bound  them.  "I 
might  search  high  and  low  till  we  stood  face  to  face, 
yet  she  would  still  want  this  braid  of  hair  from 
me,"  he  thought,  clutching  it  fiercely.  "I  should 
have  to  kill  what  is  best  in  her;  otherwise,  I  get 
no  consent  to  our  marriage.  Would  I  win  her  at 
the  cost?" 

Tragic  arguments  these,  leading  him  away  from 
the  one  he  chose  out  of  all  women  to  Lisaveta's  feet. 
He  laughed  when  this  troubadour's  phrase  flitted 
across  his  fancy.  "I  'm  not  quite  the  man  to  strike 
an  attitude,"  he  thought;  and  then,  "In  fairness, 
should  I  not  make  her  the  judge  whether  I  am  free? 
Tell  her  what  we  were  to  each  other,  and  how  it 
ended — there,  down  by  the  reeds  and  rushes  of  the 
Lonndubh?  Have  I  any  business  to  be  keeping 
this  ?" — the  wisp  of  dark  hair  was  still  twined  about 


366  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

his  fingers.  He  concluded  impetuously,  "She  ought 
to  know." 

This  seemed  a  way  out,  for  they  would  both  be 
acting  in  daylight ;  and  his  mind  was  at  length  made 
up,  though  not  until  he  had  ridden  leagues  and 
leagues,  sorry  that  he  could  get  no  ckance  of  break- 
ing his  neck  over  a  fence.  In  his  country  the  hunt- 
ing season  had  come  to  an  abrupt  close.  Masters  of 
hounds  were  unable  to  keep  their  packs ;  the  gentle- 
men had  mostly  sold  their  hunters  and  did  not  know 
how  to  feed  their  stable-boys.  It  was  the  last  stroke. 
So  Philip  had  his  riding  to  himself. 

He  was  the  most  solitary  of  mortals.  Since  Lady 
Liscarroll's  illness,  the  castle,  deserted  by  its  master, 
had  fallen  into  a  dismal  silence;  no  visitor  came  up 
the  avenue  where  the  grass  invaded  and  mosses  grew 
thick,  and  the  young  men  who  used  to  meet  Philip 
in  the  hunting  field  went  their  ways,  forgetful  of  a 
comrade  they  had  never  understood.  Was  it  his 
fault?  He  would  soon  pay  for  it. 

He  had  just  reached  the  conclusion  of  so  much 
debating  when  Mr.  Colegrave  wrote  to  him'  from 
Cork,  telling  him  that  his  efforts  to  raise  money  and 
save  the  foreclosure  of  the  mortgage  had  some  pros- 
pect of  success,  but  "We  shall  do  little  unless  you 
can  see  the  principals  yourself,"  he  added;  "could 
not  you  give  us  a  few  days  here,  even  at  the  risk  of 
leaving  Lady  Liscarroll  ?" 


WIDOW  AND   WIFE  367 

The  young  man  smiled — not  pleasantly — and  an- 
swered that  he  would  come.  At  Silverwood  his  in- 
tended expedition  was  speedily  known — messages 
passing  continually  backward  and  forward  between 
the  houses — but  he  warned  his  mother  that  disagree- 
able business,  such  as  this,  which  he  did  not  expect  to 
turn  out  well,  was  always  slow ;  he  could  not  name  a 
day  for  his  next  visit. 

Slow  enough  the  business  proved.  Every  inter- 
view ripped  up  fresh  wounds  in  the  body  of  the  es- 
tate, which  was  loaded  with  old  charges,  with  tenants 
on  the  edge  of  bankruptcy,  and  the  disorder  of  years. 
Mr.  Colegrave  tried  hard  to  make  up  for  his  own 
methods,  at  once  severe  and  neglectful,  of  managing 
the  land;  but  it  was  too  late.  Several  days  passed 
in  bitter  and  unavailing  discussion  with  the  cautious 
bankers  to  whom,  in  this  extremity,  he  had  applied  ; 
the  upshot  was  that  they  declined  to  advance  any 
sum  which  would  satisfy  the  unknown  mortgagee. 
Philip  never  mentioned  Miss  O'Connor.  When  his 
agent  hazarded  the  name,  he  said  merely,  "If  you 
were  acting  on  her  side,  could  you  advise  so  bad  a 
bargain  ?" 

"There  might  be  a  way  to  mend  it,"  answered 
Colegrave,  not  choosing  to  meet  Sir  Philip's  eye. 
"Wealthy  ladies  can  indulge  their  tastes;  it  is  a 
property  with — with  romantic  associations,  and 
would  give  splendor  to  any  woman." 


368  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

The  baronet  turned  away,  thinking,  "We  are  cer- 
tainly man  and  wife  to  this  fool  of  a  public.  She 
never  supposed  that,  when  she  opened  her  doors  to 
my  mother;  nor  did  I." 

All  this  parleying  ended  in  smoke,  except  for  the 
tongue  of  fire  that  leaped  out  from  it,  the  mar- 
riage inevitable,  brought  about  by  accident ;  and  the 
burning  scar  sent  Philip  home  again.  "She  shall  be 
told  everything;  then  let  her  say  the  word,"  he  re- 
solved, as  he  left  behind  him  the  bright  streams  and 
hanging  gardens  of  the  fair  city.  After  a  night  at 
Renmore  he  felt  the  time  had  gone  by  for  trifling. 
He  would  ride  at  once  to  Airgead  Ross,  get  tidings 
of  Lisaveta's  movements,  and  put  himself  into  direct 
communication  with  her,  if  she  were  still  away. 
But,  most  likely,  she  would  be  at  home.  Twelve 
days  had  elapsed  since  her  departure ;  it  was  now  the 
third  Monday  in  March. 

And  a  beautiful  day,  glittering  like  a  gold  ring 
which  had  been  dropped  into  the  lap  of  winter  by  the 
advancing  year,  rich  in  tone,  windless  and  dewy, 
kind  to  the  spirit  and  the  sense.  Philip  started  in 
good  time,  with  such  a  tumultuous  heart  as  the  man 
who  hears  the  rifles  sing ;  but  he  recovered  somewhat 
under  the  physical  excitement  of  air  and  motion. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  house  and  asked  for  Miss 
O'Connor,  Yegor  informed  him  she  had  not  yet 
returned. 


WIDOW  AND   WIFE  369 

"Then  I  will  go  up  to  Lady  Liscarroll,"  he  said; 
"please  let  her  know  I  am  here,"  and  he  made  a  step 
toward  the  stairs. 

Yegor  hesitated;  a  certain  embarrassment  came 
over  him;  he  muttered  something  in  his  native  lan- 
guage, the  import  of  which  naturally  escaped  his 
hearer.  "I  think,  sir,"  he  resumed  after  a  long 
pause,  "her  ladyship  is  not — you  will  not  find  her 
upstairs." 

"Where,  then — in  the  drawing-room?" 

"No,  she  has  gone  out." 

"Out?  My  mother  gone  out?  Driving?  It  is 
rather  cold  for  an  invalid ;  but  how  comes  she  to  be 
so  much  better?  You  amaze  me." 

"The  lady  is  not  driving,  sir,"  answered  Yegor; 
"about  two  hours  ago  she  left  the  house,  in  company 
with  her  maid  and  the  doctor.  He — Mr.  Driscoll — 
said  the  day  was  so  fine,  his  patient  could  get  some 
exercise  in  our  woods.  They  are  not  back  yet." 

Here  was  a  piece  of  news!  It  sounded  heavy 
and  strange.  Lady  Liscarroll  had  given  a  more 
cheering  account  of  herself  lately;  but  this  staggered 
him.  "Has  my  mother  taken  this  sort  of  exercise 
before?  Gone  into  the  woods?  I  can't  credit  my 
ears." 

"Her  ladyship  used  to  walk  down  by  the  beach 

when  she  first  came  to  Silverwood,"  thus  Yegor  an- 
24 


370  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

swered,  but  in  his  accent  a  sharp  ear  would  have  de- 
tected some  reserve.  Philip  noticed  it. 

"Well,  I  may  stroll  down  that  way  on  the  chance 
of  meeting  them,"  he  said,  conscious  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  that  this  woman  never  would  keep  still, 
but,  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  gave  signs  of  a 
life  altogether  estranged  from  him.  To  discuss 
with  servants  a  matter  so  intolerable! — he  quitted 
Yegor  on  the  steps,  and  went  along  the  winding 
path  which  led  toward  the  little  inlet,  or  cove;  but 
arriving,  saw  no  one.  The  beach  was  deserted. 
"They  cannot  have  gone  far,"  he  reasoned;  "walk- 
ing, too,  and  in  the  last  stage  of  consumption? 
What  does  it  mean  ?" 

His  long  sorrow  had  filled  with  presentiments  a 
mind  originally  perhaps  superstitious.  Every  touch 
on  the  strings  set  him  quivering.  "She  might  guess 
how  I  feel ;  but  she  has  never — never  cared,"  he  went 
on  to  himself.  "It  is  like  a  wild  creature  in  your 
hands;  kindness,  severity,  nothing  will  make  it  un- 
derstand you."  Miserable,  he  continued  his  ram- 
blings  along  by  the  beach,  but  some  distance  above 
it,  in  tracks  through  the  crowded  evergreens.  But 
he  saw  no  signs  of  her.  Was  it  possible  she  had 
taken  her  chance  and  run  ? 

Anything  was  to  be  expected  which  would  bring 
shame  upon  them. 


WIDOW  AND   WIFE  371 

While  he  argued,  Philip  had  reached  a  hollow  in 
the  rocks,  from  which  another  turn  in  the  long  bay 
was  visible.  Just  below  him  rose  the  walls  of  St. 
Brandan's  Kitchen,  but  his  position  did  not  enable 
him  to  see  into  the  thick  covert  which  surrounded  it. 
Nor  had  he  the  wish.  What  his  eyes  announced  was 
remarkable  enough,  not  to  say  disquieting.  Some- 
what west  of  the  chapel  a  boat  was  grounding  on  the 
dry  sand;  in  it  sat  Felim  O'Riordan;  two  other  men 
had  come  down  and  were  just  stepping  across  the 
gunwale.  He  did  not  recognize  the  first,  a  cloaked 
personage.  But  the  second  was  Mr.  Will  Hapgood 
of  Derryvore. 

No  sooner  were  they  on  board  than  Felim  and  his 
master  plied  the  oars  vigorously,  making  for  the 
open.  It  was  clear  they  would  not  land  at  Airgead 
Ross.  Where  then?  That  he  could  not  conjecture; 
but  he  stayed  watching  them  from  his  hollow  in  the 
rocks,  until  they  had  rounded  the  point  southward 
and  passed  out  of  his  view.  Thoughts  fearful  and 
obscure  besieged  Philip.  He  did  not  hesitate  a  mo- 
ment in  connecting  this  extraordinary  apparition  of 
the  three  men  on  a  desolate  coast  with  his  mother's 
sudden  taste  for  a  morning  excursion  in  the  woods. 
To  read  the  whole  purport  of  this  writing  he  must, 
however,  find  out  a  little  more. 

Fortune  threw  the  trumps  into  his  hands.     Not 


372  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

long  after  the  boat  dipped  under,  a  sound  of  low 
voices  and  footsteps  on  the  brushwood  apprised  him 
that  others  were  in  the  copse,  moving  away  from  his 
place  of  concealment.  He  could  not  see  them,  but 
Driscoll's  harsh  tones  traveled  to  his  ear,  and  it  was 
perhaps  Lady  Liscarroll  that  answered.  He  let  them 
go  on  before  him.  By  and  by,  when  they  could  no 
longer  be  heard,  Philip  stood  up,  sprang  from  the 
crag  into  the  covert,  and  running  hastily  round 
through  bypaths  well  known  to  him,  contrived  that 
he  should  enter  the  road  which  led  up  to  the  house, 
just  as  his  mother  was  resting  on  the  gnarled  roots 
of  an  enormous  oak,  the  two  Driscolls  beside  her. 

She  looked  pale,  and  was,  or  affected  to  be,  tired 
out.  When  Philip,  flushed  and  nervous,  came  up,  a 
smile  crinkled  her  bloodless  lips  and  died  off  them  in 
the  effort.  "Welcome  back,"  she  said,  and  lifted 
her  forehead,  which  he  touched  slightly,  but  could 
not  bring  himself  to  kiss.  "We  hardly  expected  you 
so  soon.  I  hope  you  have  brought  good  news  from 
Cork." 

"We  will  talk  of  it,"  he  replied,  the  sweat  standing 
on  his  ruddy  skin.  "But  you  look  tired.  Is  n't  it 
imprudent  to  be  sitting  here?  What  say  you, 
doctor?" 

"The  morning  was  delicious,  and  her  Iad3rship 
thought  a  little  walk  would  do  her  all  the  good  in  the 


WIDOW   AND    WIFE  373 

world,"  answered  Driscoll.  "You  see,  sir,  she  had 
her  medical  adviser.  But  we  overestimated  her 
strength.  Now,  my  lady,  will  you  take  Sir  Philip's 
arm?" 

He  gave  it  in  silence,  and  they  moved  on  toward 
the  house.  "You  found  your  walk  pleasant?"  he 
said  after  a  while,  fixing  his  eyes  on  her. 

"Very,"  said  she,  letting  her  own  rest  on  the 
ground. 

"How  far  did  you  get?"  he  pursued,  still  eyeing 
this  strange  woman  whose  blood  ran  in  his  veins, 
while  her  heart  was  the  most  dismal  of  secrets  to 
him. 

"I  hardly  know,"  she  said,  "one  path  is  so  like 
another;  we  went  down  by  the  sea." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  St.  Brandan's  Kitchen  ?" 

The  arm  which  was  leaning  on  his  fell  by  the 
lady's  side.  "Where  is  it?"  she  inquired,  her  face 
toward  the  doctor's. 

"Oh,  it  is  an  old  ruin  by  the  seashore,"  said 
Driscoll;  "they  give  those  places  quare  names  en- 
tirely. 'T  is  not  a  kitchen  it  is,  but  a  church  with 
no  roof  to  it." 

"There  's  a  better  kitchen  in  the  house  yonder," 
said  Mrs.  Driscoll,  showing  her  false  teeth,  "and  Mr. 
Yegor  is  the  finest  cook  I  ever  saw  out  of  London." 

Some  shadow  of  a  laugh  which  fell  on  them  had  a 


374  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

coldness  in  it;  they  said  no  more  while  this  horrible 
walk  lasted.  "I  must  lie  down  till  the  evening,"  re- 
marked Lady  Liscarroll,  her  weakness  perceptible  in 
a  sudden  languor. 

"Take  your  rest  at  once,"  answered  Philip,  "you 
will  require  it." 

When  she  was  shut  into  her  room  with  Mrs.  Dris- 
coll,  and  the  doctor  had  driven  off,  the  baronet  sent 
for  Yegor,  who  came  unwillingly,  to  judge  by  his 
countenance. 

"How  often  has  Lady  Liscarroll  taken  private 
walks  since  her  illness  began?"  he  asked,  and  on  the 
man's  hesitating,  he  added,  "Nothing  but  the  truth 
will  do;  out  with  it." 

Yegor  considered  a  little.  "Why  should  I  screen 
her?"  he  said,  with  a  look  in  which  you  might  have 
discerned  the  pity  we  give  to  a  wounded  animal. 
"Sir,  you  have  a  bad  mother,  and  they  say  you  will 
soon  be  master  in  this  house.  Here  is  my  duty,  then. 
How  often  has  the  lady  met  someone  in  our  woods  ? 
I  cannot  say;  it  is  very  often." 

"Good  God !"  muttered  the  unhappy  man.  "But 
she  has  been  ill  since  last  summer — in  a  decline,  ac- 
cording to  the  physician." 

"That,  if  true,  has  not  kept  her  in.  False  I  do  not 
say  it  is  altogether.  I  believe  she  has  put  on  her 
maid's  dress  and  slipped  out,  when  we  thought  her  a 


WIDOW  AND  WIFE  375 

sick  woman  on  her  bed.  We  stay  not  up  late;  the 
doors  are  not  fast,  and  they  are  many." 

"Can  you  say  of  your  own  knowledge  that  this  has 
happened?  Did  you  ever  see  her,  Yegor?" 

"It  was  perhaps  a  roussalka  in  the  twilight — you 
call  them  ghosts — if  not,  it  was  Lady  Liscarroll. 
For  you  to  choose,  sir." 

"How  came  you  not  to  let  your  mistress  know  ?" 

"My  mistress  had  her  bad  dreams,  but  she  dis- 
liked them;  she  wanted  to  make  the  other  good  by 
trusting  her." 

"In  which  you  think  she  failed  ?" 

"Had  you  not  the  name  given  you  by  all  the  world 
of  Lisaveta  Carlovna's  betrothed,  I  would  never  pre- 
sume to  have  an  opinion,  sir,  but  now — yes,  I  believe 
it  is  no  use.  What  will  you  do,  sir?" 

"Can  you  have  a  carriage  at  the  door  by  four 
o'clock?"  said  Philip  in  reply.  "Your  best  pair  of 
horses;  they  must  go  to  Renmore  Castle  and  come 
back  this  night." 

"Certainly,  sir.  At  four  they  shall  be  here.  But, 
pardon  me,  sir,  you  are  bleeding;  let  me  call 
assistance."  Philip's  handkerchief  was,  in  fact, 
suddenly  drenched  with  blood  as  he  put  it  to  his 
mouth. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said;  "I  have  broken  a  small 
blood-vessel  somewhere  inside.  Don't  alarm  people. 


376  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

I  will  go  to  your  room  and  put  it  right  with  cold 
water." 

The  bleeding  stopped  before  many  minutes,  but 
Philip's  eyes  appeared  to  be  suffused  with  crimson. 
"Call  me  at  half-past  three,"  he  said,  throwing  him- 
self back  in  an  armchair.  "The  carriage  at  four — 
tell  nobody  where  it  is  going." 

He  fell  dead  asleep,  as  under  some  overpowering 
weight.  Yegor,  who  spoke  and  thought  in  French 
from  long  custom,  said  as  he  went  out  of  the  cham- 
ber, //  dort  sur  la  roue,  like  the  criminals  whom  the 
law  once  tortured  before  killing  them.  Philip 
slumbered  while  the  wheel  was  under  him. 

At  half-past  three  he  awoke,  dipped  his  head  in 
cold  water,  and  with  a  shake  and  a  stride  mounted 
to  his  mother's  room.  He  knocked  and  went  in. 
She  was  lying  on  a  couch,  the  curtains  at  the  win- 
dows drawn  together.  Pulling  them  aside,  the 
young  man  let  in  a  brilliant  sky  upon  the  lady's  face 
and  figure.  To  his  astonishment  she  wore  a  dress 
of  floating  white,  trimmed  exquisitely,  and  set  in 
relief  by  her  yellow  hair  about  a  countenance  which 
was  certainly  almost  waxen,  but  otherwise  more 
youthful  than  his  own. 

The  abrupt  movement  startled  her.  "I  can't  bear 
so  much  light,"  she  remonstrated,  and  was  answered 
with  a  laugh. 


WIDOW  AND   WIFE  377 

"No  doubt,  but  we  must  all  bear  it  some  time. 
Are  you  rested  now  ?" 

"Fairly,  though  I  am  always  weak." 

"You  need  not  tell  me  that.  A  little  more  ex- 
ercise may  strengthen  you." 

"How?"  she  said,  springing  up  in  alarm.  "I 
want  my  maid,"  but  before  she  could  touch  the  bell, 
he  had  planted  himself  in  front  of  it. 

"Your  maid  will  come  presently.  She  will  put 
together  what  things  you  require;  and  we  shall  be 
leaving  at  four." 

"But,  Philip,  you  are  raving.  Where  do  we  go 
at  four?" 

"Home,"  he  cr;ed,  in  a  voice  which  rilled  her  like 
a  blow.  "Home — to  your  home  and  mine — to  the 
place  of  torment  you  have  made  for  me.  We  have 
done  with  Airgead  Ross." 

"Can't  you  let  me  die  here  in  peace?"  she  en- 
treated. 

"You  must  die  at  home.  Put  off  that  white 
flummery.  It  makes  you  look  like  a  bride — shame- 
ful at  your  age.  Tell  Sarah  North  to  pack  up." 

"Is  she  coming  with  us  ?" 

"Let  her  go  to  her  husband.  Married  women 
ought  not  to  be  living  in  strangers'  houses.  Be 
ready  at  four." 

"If  I  look  like  a  bride,  you  are  the  image  of  your 


378  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

father,"  said  the  lady,  giving  him  scorn  for  scorn. 
"Oh,  you  will  repent  it,  Philip;  you  will  be  sorry 
yet." 

"At  four,"  he  said,  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

IT  was  done,  to  the  amazement  of  the  household, 
which,  somehow,  got  wind  of  the  thing,  and  saw 
them  off  in  a  portentous  silence.  The  long  journey 
was  accomplished  without  a  syllable  to  break  its 
weariness.  Philip  and  his  mother  now  grappled  in 
a  speechless  conflict — soul  to  soul;  but  the  man's 
appeared  to  prevail.  He  had  wound  all  his  forces 
up  until  they  were  like  a  spring  which,  when  it 
uncoils,  will  strike  furiously  against  whatever  op- 
poses it.  No  talk  could  make  things  different.  They 
had  passed  beyond  words;  these  fleet  horses  were 
bearing  mother  and  son  to  a  field  of  battle. 

It  was  dark  when  they  arrived,  and  Philip  led  his 
mother  at  once,  with  grave  courtesy,  to  the  room  she 
had  last  occupied.  So  completely  had  the  events 
of  the  day  thrown  them  off  their  balance  that  when 
Lady  Liscarroll  walked  upstairs  without  help,  tread- 
ing firmly  as  though  she  never  felt  a  moment's 
illness,  he  paid  no  heed  to  the  transformation. 

"This  is  the  Marie  Antoinette  room,"  she  said, 
looking  round  on  its  choice  appointments.  Then, 
not  touching  him,  but  erect,  "Philip,  do  you  mean  to 
murder  me  ?" 


WIDOW  AND   WIFE  379 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  he  answered  grimly.  "Yes, 
I  give  you  the  best  I  have.  You  understand  that 
when  O'Sullivan  has  brought  your  dinner,  I  shall 
lock  you  in ;  and  you  will  do  without  a  maid." 

"I  want  nothing  but  my  freedom,"  she  answered 
disdainfully,  flinging  her  wraps  on  a  chair.  She 
still  wore  the  splendid  white  lace,  over  which  the 
lights  danced  in  the  wind  of  the  open  door.  Philip 
had  never  seen  his  mother  look  so  magnificent ;  even 
her  color  revived,  and  the  sense  of  danger  made  her 
eyes  sparkle.  He  felt  madness  was  in  the  air. 

"I  send  up  O'Sullivan,  and  afterward  I  lock  the 
door,"  he  repeated,  going  away. 

"Your  master  is  insane,"  she  said  to  the1  steward 
when  he  arrived.  "Who  is  in  the  castle  besides  you 
and  Nora?" 

"Her  sister's  two  daughters,  my  lady,"  answered 
he.  "There  is  no  man  at  all  but  myself." 

"Promise  me  you  will  not  go  to  bed  until  after 
Sir  Philip,"  she  said  uneasily.  "He  is  quite  out  of 
his  mind.  And  in  the  morning  you  will  get  a  note 
off  from  me  to — I  need  n't  mention  names." 

"I  will  do  the  best  I  can,"  he  replied.  "But  't  is 
unlucky  to  fly  back  when  you  have  left  the  nest. 
Why  did  n't  you  go  the  night  the  Gray  Tower  fell 
in?  'T  would  have  been  the  saving  of  us  all.  I 
wanted  you  out  of  this  place,  for  Sir  Philip's  sake. 
Now  you  are  here  again.  What  brought  you?" 


380  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"I  had  no  choice ;  who  has  ?"  she  answered.  "Keep 
a  watch  on  my  son;  I  shall  be  awake — sleep  in  this 
awful  room  with  those  things  of  the  murdered  Queen 
about  me  I  never  can.  Oh,  if  the  night  were  past!" 

It  lengthened  with  the  silent  hours.  Philip  came, 
said  good-night  as  to  a  stranger,  shot  the  key  in  the 
lock,  and  retreated  with  heavy  footsteps.  He  had 
refused  to  dine,  but  ordered  a  great  fire  in  the  hall, 
and  sat  before  it,  sunk  in  wild  thoughts.  O'Sulli- 
van,  alarmed,  but  no  coward,  brought  rugs  which  he 
laid  in  front  of  the  locked  room,  and  lying  there  in 
dog-like  fashion,  kept  vigil.  He  could  hear  nothing 
for  several  hours  but  the  wood  burning  downstairs 
on  the  hearth,  and  Philip's  occasional  stride,  falling 
irregularly,  as  of  an  unquiet  visitant  where  men 
slept. 

But,  in  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the  night,  a 
curious  sound  smote  on  his  ears.  Creeping  to  the 
head  of  the  great  staircase,  he  looked  over  it  and  saw 
his  master,  with  a  waxlight  in  his  hand,  passing 
slowly  round  the  hall,  from  portrait  to  portrait,  ex- 
amining with  close  attention,  as  it  seemed,  the  fea- 
tures of  his  ancestors,  while  he  talked  aloud  to  some 
invisible  companion, whose  steps  determined  his  own. 
But  the  phrases  were  cut  and  fragmentary,  often  as 
replying  to  another's  observations;  and  who  could 
that  other  be?  O'Sullivan  dreaded  lest  it  should 


WIDOW  AND   WIFE  381 

break  out  suddenly  upon  his  sight.  The  baronet 
was  approaching,  candle  in  hand ;  it  was  time  for  the 
steward  to  draw  back,  and  then  a  more  terrible  fear 
assailed  him.  How  if  this  madman  should  be  com- 
ing up  to  his  mother's  room  ? 

Philip,  still  talking,  ascended  half-way,  stopped, 
and  covered  his  eyes,  leaning  against  the  balustrade 
in  a  profound  meditation.  "You  see,  father,  I  can- 
not keep  her  out,"  he  said  softly;  "she  has  blood  in 
her  veins,  you  have  none,  that  is  why  you  shrink 
when  she  comes.  I  know  I  am  talking  with  a  shade. 
But  do  not  put  thoughts  into  me  which — I  will  never 
— oh,  I  must  not !"  He  shook  himself  with  a  violent 
effort,  such  as  one  makes  who  is  half  asleep  and  feels 
he  should  be  up  and  doing  against  some  evil  dream. 
The  light  dropped  from  his  hand. 

"God  forgive  us,"  whispered  O'Sullivan,  making 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  "  't  is  Sir  Walter  that  is  walk- 
ing the  house,  showing  his  son  those  pictures  of  men 
as  dead  as  himself.  Is  he  timpting  the  poor  boy  to 
kill  that  woman  above?  I  '11  go  spake  to  him  at  any 
rate." 

He  moved  quietly  to  Philip,  laid  a  gentle  hand 
upon  him,  and  said,  "Won't  you  try  a  little  sleep  now 
sir?  Come  to  your  own  room,  't  is  ready  for  you 
and  comfortable." 

"Did  you  see  my  father?"  said  Philip.     "He  was 


382  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

there — you  are  standing  on  the  spot.  He  gave  me 
a  command  I  can't  fulfil — you  heard  him  ?" 

"For  God's  sake,  and  his,  come  to  bed !"  exclaimed 
the  steward,  his  blood  frozen.  "Come,  you  have  no 
right  to  be  up  alone  with  yourself  at  these  unholy 
hours."  He  drew  the  young  man  on,  without  re- 
sistance; and  step  by  step,  as  if  teaching  a  child  to 
walk,  got  him  inside  his  room.  Philip  tumbled  on 
the.bed,  dressed  as  he  was,  and  after  some  minutes  of 
vague  muttering,  slept  heavily,  upon  which  O'Sulli- 
van,  still  tremulous,  put  out  the  lights,  locked  the 
door,  and  lay  down  on  his  rugs  again  in  front  of  the 
Marie  Antoinette  chamber.  A  voice  from  within 
whispered,  "Where  is  Sir  Philip?" 

"The  house  is  full  of  voices  to-night,"  he  said, 
turning  faint,  "but  that  is  my  lady's.  I  have  locked 
him  in  his  room,"  he  continued  aloud.  "You  may 
sleep  now;  he  will  not  trouble  you,  with  the  grace 
of  God." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
THE  DEVIL'S  CRAG 

NIGHT  with  its  terrors  was  past,  but  the  day,  how 
would  it  wear  to  an  end?  Philip  had  come 
down,  pale  as  any  sheet,  his  eyes  full  of  the  bad 
dream  in  which  murder  stood  at  his  elbow;  and  he 
touched  no  food,  nor  did  he  go  near  his  mother's 
room.  Toward  eleven  he  said  to  the  steward,  "Tell 
that  lady  I  am  going  out;  she  is  to  come  with  me." 

When  she  appeared,  he  passed  on  through  a  side 
door  to  the  open  strand,  where  a  boat  was  lying, 
helped  her  into  it  silently,  and  took  the  oars. 

"Shall  we  be  alone  ?"  asked  his  mother,  frightened, 
but  trying  to  show  a  little  courage. 

"By  ourselves,"  was  the  short  answer;  and  he 
drove  the  boat  on,  making  for  a  reef  of  rocks  which 
closed  in  the  long  Sound  of  Renmore. 

It  was  tranquil  weather,  serried  lines  of  cloud 
barring  the  sky  with  bright  battalions,  under  which 
the  water  shone.  The  castle,  now  to  such  a  lament- 
able extent  in  ruins,  might  have  been  a  Venetian 
palace  by  the  side  of  a  desolate  canal ;  it  looked  its 

383 


384  THE   WIZARD'S  KNOT 

age,  and  the  waves  lapping  on  the  sands  were  monot- 
onously repeating  a  psalm  of  death,  not  unlovely, 
though  formidable.  Along  the  rocks  in  front  cor- 
morants stood  ranged,  sentinels  of  solitude ;  and  the 
crimson  growth  of  some  wild  vegetation  showed  dis- 
tinctly upon  them  at  that  distance. 

"Why  do  we  come  this  way?"  inquired  Lady  Lis- 
carroll.  "Have  you  an  appointment  at  Carraig  na 
Diabhail?"  The  Devil's  Rock  was  ahead  of  them. 

"You  will  see,"  was  all  he  said. 

Nearly  an  hour's  rowing,  and  they  arrived  at  the 
reef,  where  Philip,  leaping  on  the  narrow  ledge, 
made  his  boat  fast,  motioned  that  his  mother  must 
follow,  and  led  the  way  up  a  winding  track  until 
they  came  to  the  summit,  from  which  an  immeasur- 
able gray-green  sea  stretched  out  in  their  sight.  A 
lonelier  spot  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine.  They 
rested.  Philip's  gaze  was  turned  to  his  castle,  shat- 
tered by  storms,  a  wreck  on  land,  with  dark  woods 
seeming  to  grow  over  it.  His  mother  looked  sea- 
ward, fear  pouring  cold  into  her  veins  and  prophe- 
sying evil.  "It  is  very  chill  up  here,"  she  said  at 
length. 

"Mother,"  he  began,  but  stopped;  "mother,  we 
are  alone.  I  have  brought  you  here,  where  the  cliff 
is  steepest — look  down,  a  pebble  would  drop  straight 
into  the  water.  You  know  what  is  to  do  ?" 


THE   DEVIL'S  CRAG  385 

"I  know  you  are  vexed  with  me,"  she  said.  "I 
can't  help  that." 

"Vexed — I  am  mad  with  you,"  he  cried.  "My 
brain  is  on  fire.  We  must  come  to  a  clear  under- 
standing. Either  you  will  tell  me  the  whole  truth 
— what  you  are,  and  what  you  mean — or — " 

"Or  you  will  fling  me  down  the  rocks  ?"  she  con- 
cluded, still  between  fear  and  bravado,  thinking  how 
she  could  get  back  to  the  boat  and  escape  him. 

"It  has  been  the  fate  of  better  women,"  he  said  in 
his  low  tones,  "but  have  no  dread.  One  of  us  must 
die;  surely  that  was  plain  when  you  set  foot  in  the 
castle  a  second  time.  I  cannot  kill  you.  Last  night 
— in  a  dream — I  was  near  doing  it.  Not  now ;  but 
I  can  kill  myself.  Unless  I  hear  the  truth  from  your 
lips,  you  go  back  alone." 

She  sighed — the  sudden  deliverance,  the  new  ap- 
prehension, were  too  much.  "What  if  I  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it?  Will  you  forgive  me?"  she 
began. 

"No  conditions,"  he  said  angrily.  "I  look  in  your 
eyes  and  I  insist  on  knowing." 

Thereupon  she  held  out  her  left  hand.  "Do  you 
see  that,  Philip?" 

"Your  wedding-ring?  I  never  denied  you  were 
my  father's  wife." 

"I  am  neither  his  wife  nor  his  widow,"  she  an- 
as 


386  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

swered.  "Yesterday  you  called  me  a  bride.  When 
we  met  on  the  way  from  St.  Brandan's  Kitchen,  I 
had  just  been  married."  The  ring  shot  out  a  gleam, 
but  she  would  not  hide  it. 

"I  was  too  late  for  the  wedding,"  he  answered 
sarcastically,  "but  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bride- 
groom. Will  Hapgood,  was  it  not?" 

"Ay,  Will  Hapgood,  the  bravest  young  fellow 
alive." 

"And  you — you  love  him  ?" 

With  a  passionate  cry  she  rose  to  her  feet.  "You 
asked  for  the  truth — you  shall  have  it!  I  never 
loved  but  one  man,  and  his  wife  I  never  was  nor 
can  be.  Henry  Lifford  is  dead.  Now  you  know." 

"He  wronged  my  father;  dragged  you  about  the 
gaming-tables  of  Europe  at  his  heels;  would  not 
share  his  name  with  you — that  was  Henry  Lifford." 

"I  don't  care;  go,  study  a  woman's  heart,  Philip, 
before  you  give  me  lessons.  Do  you  think  Joan 
O'Dwyer — and  she  but  a  country  girl — would  have 
acted  otherwise,  had  she  felt  for  you  as  I  did  for 
him?" 

"Oh,  so  you  have  heard  about  Joan!"  he  ex- 
claimed, seizing  her  hands.  "Where  is  she?  Is  she 
dead  ?  How  came  you  to  be  informed  ?" 

"Where  is  your  cousin  Edmund?"  she  asked 
sneeringly. 


THE   DEVIL'S   CRAG  387 

Her  cruel  joy  was  monstrous.  The  heart  of  the 
woman  lay  bare.  He  could  not  endure  it.  A  dead 
woman  floating  on  the  waves  would  have  been  less 
horrible.  "Why  did  you  let  Hapgood  take  you  for 
a  wife,  since  you  had  no  liking  to  him?"  he  insisted; 
''the  lad  was  not  your  enemy." 

Then  she  told  him  all,  glorying  in  it.  "Mind,  I 
could  have  fled  the  night  your  Gray  Tower  fell. 
Why  did  I  stay?  Because  I  wanted  the  match  be- 
tween you  and  Miss  O'Connor  to  come  off.  What 
reason  had  I  to  practise  these  long  months  of  sick- 
ness, except  that  there  was  no  other  way  to  bring 
you  out  of  your  shell?  It  is  as  good  as  done;  and 
you  reward  me  with  this !  For  shame,  Philip !" 

"The  illness  you  have  now  quite  put  off,"  he  said, 
not  heeding  her  indignation.  "You  are  a  bride  and 
begin  your  honeymoon — when?" 

"I  wrote  to  Mr.  Hapgood  this  morning.  He  will 
be  at  the  castle,  I  feel  sure,  before  the  day  is  out." 

"Who  took  your  letter?" 

"O' Sullivan  saw  to  that.  I  am  perfectly  candid 
with  you.  Last  night  I  was  terrified;  but  I  made 
a  vow  that  if  it  passed  in  safety,  I  would  send  for 
Will  and  demand  my  freedom.  We  are  married  in 
the  eyes  of  the  law ;  you  have  no  right  to  detain  me." 

"I  shall  not  do  so,"  he  answered.  "Have  you  any- 
thing more  to  say?"  His  tone  had  quite  changed. 


388  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

The  lady  thought  that,  after  all,  he  was  giad  some 
one  should  have  wrought  this  deliverance  for  them, 
and  her  spirits  danced. 

"The  cliff  has  lost  its  fascination,"  she  dared  to 
whisper;  "but,  Phil,  it  is  all  turning  out  happily. 
You  see  I  acted  for  the  best." 

His  answer  was  silence.  The  plashing  of  oars 
broke  upon  it,  and  induced  them  to  glance  up  the 
creek.  A  small  boat  was  approaching  from  the 
castle,  O' Sullivan  and  another  in  it.  Lady  Liscar- 
roll  held  her  breath.  "My  God,"  she  gasped  after  a 
moment,  "it  is  Will  himself !" 

And  Will  appeared  on  the  beach,  ran  swiftly  up 
the  rugged  path,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  standing 
beside  them.  He  saluted  the  lady  by  taking  off  his 
hat;  then  turned  to  Philip.  "Has  she  told  you?" 
were  his  first  words. 

The  stern,  dark  young  man  was  in  a  passion  of 
joy  and  excitement.  "I  thought  I  should  be  too 
late,"  he  muttered.  "You  know  everything,  Sir 
Philip" — as  the  baronet  made  no  answer. 

"My  mother  tells  me  she  is  your  wife,"  he  said 
coldly. 

"I  regret  the  circumstances — could  n't  be  helped — 
it  was  Lady  Liscarroll  herself  who  stood  out  so  long 
that  I  had,  in  a  manner,  to  compel  her." 


THE   DEVIL'S  CRAG  389 

Philip  interrupted  him  with  a  gesture.  "Allow 
me,"  he  said,  and  turning  to  his  mother,  "let  me  see 
you  into  the  boat.  O'Sullivan  shall  row  you  back  to 
Renmore ;  please  wait  there  till  I  return.  This  con- 
versation between  your  husband  and  myself  can  have 
no  charm  for  you." 

Her  expostulations  did  not  avail;  Hapgood  felt 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  second  them.  "My 
son  and  my  husband  will  be  friends,"  she  said,  with 
despairing  sweetness,  as  Philip  gave  her  his  hand 
down  the  rocks.  With  the  steward  he  was  per- 
emptory; and  Lady  Liscarroll  sat,  as  in  Charon's 
skiff,  ferried  over  the  waters  of  the  dead,  while  the 
forms  of  the  two  young  men  dwindled  to  black 
points  on  the  Devil's  Crag. 

"I  will  offer  my  apologies,"  said  Hapgood.  "No 
one  else  is  to  blame;  although,  as  I  hinted  at  the 
outset,  you  were  rather  severe  on — " 

"Sir !"  replied  Philip.  The  sentence  was  left  un- 
finished. 

"Anyhow,  you  accept  my  apology,"  resumed  Will, 
his  eyes  smarting.  This  kind  of  situation  was 
unendurable;  he  could  only  hope  it  would  soon  be 
over.  "In  saying  that  I  apologize — and  really,  Phil, 
I  admit  you  have  a  right  to  be  offended — I  do  all  that 
can  be  expected  of  a  gentleman." 


39o  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"Don't  talk,"  cried  the  other,  hotly.  "Must  I 
throw  you  headlong  over  the  cliff?" 

Hapgood  reared  like  a  war-horse.  "You  refuse 
my  apology — you  insult  me!" 

The  baronet  was  musing.  "I  have  n't  a  friend  in 
the  world,"  he  said  under  his  breath.  "How  is  it 
to  be  managed  ?" 

"Of  course,  if  you  want  satisfaction,"  said  Hap- 
good,  sullenly;  "mind,  I  don't  challenge  yon — I  am 
in  the  wrong,  I  own  it — but  we  cannot  fight  now." 

Philip  replied  in  a  collected  manner,  as  if  he  saw 
his  way  clear:  "In  such  a  time  as  this,  who  would 
act  as  our  seconds?  I  can  ask  no  person — yet  we 
must  meet." 

"Why  must?"  remonstrated  Will.  The  other 
looked  out  over  the  wide  sea. 

"I  have  the  choice,"  Philip  went  on.  "I  appoint 
Rathmorna  as  the  place;  the  arms,  pistols.  Bring 
that  lad,  Felim  O'Riordan;  I  .will  bring  O'Sullivan. 
What  happens  must  seem  an  accident." 

"Since  you  will  have  it  so,"  replied  Hapgood, 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  his  antagonist ;  "otherwise,  you 
would  not  leave  this  but  dead." 

"All  the  same,  I  call  it  murder." 

"Call  it  how  you  please.  To-morrow  morning 
at  seven.  I  put  it  on  your  honor  to  keep  these  ar- 


THE   DEVIL'S   CRAG  391 

rangements  from  Lady  Liscarroll.  You  know  how 
to  do  it."  He  was  turning  to  go,  when  Hapgood 
held  his  arm. 

"For  the  last  time,  Philip,  I  offer  to  take  all  the 
blame  on  myself." 

"Who  else?  You  will  scarcely  blame  me.  I 
have  told  you  what  remains." 

Hapgood  threw  up  his  arms,  swore  a  silent  oath, 
and  followed  his  challenger  down  to  the  boat,  which 
Philip  turned  in  the  direction  of  Renmore.  The 
lady  was  waiting  outside  the  house,  shaken  to  a  real 
sickness,  enraged  that  men  should  act  and  decide  as 
if  it  mattered  nothing  to  women  what  they  did.  But 
she  had  still  to  put  on  a  pleasant  face  and  make  trial 
of  her  witcheries.  "You  are  both  satisfied  at  last,"she 
pleaded,  when  they  came  up.  "Philip,  will  Mr. 
Hapgood  not  lunch  with  us,  in  token  of  friendship  ?" 

"Another  time,  my  dear  Eleanor,"  said  the  new 
husband,  clasping  her  fingers;  "I  must  n't  stay." 
He  bent  and  kissed  her  hand,  flushed  up  to  the  eyes 
of  a  sudden,  and  walked  swiftly  into  the  avenue, 
where  a  lad  was  holding  his  horse. 

When  he  had  disappeared,  "You  are  friends, 
Philip  ?"  repeated  the  anxious  voice. 

"More  than  friends — relations,"  answered  her 
son;  "you  have  given  me  a  stepfather." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HAND    IN    HAND 

INTO  the  long,  low,  wainscoted  parlor  of  Sars- 
field  House  the  afternoon  sun  was  darting  a  fur- 
tive ray  which  lit  up  Miss  O'Connor's  face  where  she 
rested  meditatively,  tired  of  all  she  had  lately  gone 
through.  Visitors  were  announced;  she  did  not 
catch  the  names,  but  on  turning  to  receive  them,  what 
was  her  surprise  when  Yegor  came  forward,  lead- 
ing in  his  wake  the  shy  Felim  O'Riordan. 

"I  wrote  for  news — you  fetch  it  yourself;  is  it 
bad  news?  Why  do  you  bring  this  young  man?" 
she  said  to  him  in  alarm. 

She  pointed  to  chairs,  but  the  two  heralds  of  the 
unknown  stood  silent,  as  if  uncertain  where  to 
begin. 

"Is  Lady  Liscarroll  worse?"  inquired  Miss 
O'Connor. 

"She  has  left  Silverwood,"  answered  Yegor;  "I 
cannot  say  how  she  is ;  this  youth  will  tell  you,  since 
he  saw  her  last" 

It  was  now  Felim's  place  to  speak.  "Oh,  ma'am," 
392 


HAND    IN   HAND  393 

he  burst  out,  "never  mind  in  what  state  that  wicked 
creature  is;  but  return  home.  Sir  Philip  will  not 
put  the  week  through,  and  't  is  I  was  the  cause  of  it." 
He  broke  down  like  a  child. 

"Has  Philip  met  with  an  accident?"  cried  Miss 
O'Connor,  a  dreadful  suspicion  breaking  into  her 
mind.  "You,  Felim? — you  were  jealous? — you 
guessed  something  was  wrong  and  you  have — " 

"  'T  is  not  that  way  at  all,"  replied  the  fisher  lad, 
tremulously.  "Jealous  I  was,  and  well  I  knew  where 
he  pitched  his  love.  I  must  say  no  more" — his 
glance  lighted  on  her  and  then  fell — "but  if  I  did  n't 
let  out  the  name  of  Kilmallock,  this  day  he  would  be 
in  his  full  strength  as  ever.  When  you  came  in 
search  of  Joan,  bad  began  and  worse  followed." 

"I  am  still  in  the  dark.  Yegor,  I  know  you  got 
the  poor  girl's  address  from  this  boy,"  she  said. 

"From  me,  when  I  was  under  the  influence  of  the 
cursed  drink — and  I  broke  Father  Mathew's  pledge. 
I  'm  well  chastised  now." 

"Then  Philip  quarreled  with  you  ?" 

"It  is  a  short  story,  ma'am.  No  sooner  did  I 
recover  from  my  sinful  condition  than  I  was  in  a 
fright,  dreading  you  would  bring  the  two  of  them 
together — Sir  Philip  and  Joan,  I  mane,  for  I  don't 
deny  they  were  sweethearting.  So  I  up  and  tould 
Mr.  Hapgood." 


394  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"But  how  comes  he  into  it?  I  am  more  bewil- 
dered than  I  was." 

Yegor  interposed.  "I  gave  warning  to  your  Ex- 
cellence months  ago  that  our  guest,  or  her  phantom, 
was  seen  in  the  woods  about  your  mansion  talking 
with  a  stranger.  You  did  not  wish  to  believe  it. 
The  stranger  was  Mr.  Hapgood." 

"So, when  he  knew  his  time  was  short,  and  the  tide 
maybe  turning  against  him,"  said  O'Riordan,  "he 
was  always  mad  with  love  for  the  witch — I  beg  your 
pardon  once  more, — nothing  will  plaise  him  but  to 
get  a  clergyman,  and  the  Driscolls  to  be  witnesses, 
and  he  must  marry  Lady  Liscarroll;  bad  luck  to 
every  one  that  had  a  hand  in  it !  I  '11  never  get  the 
taste  of  St.  Brandan's  leeks  out  of  my  mouth." 

"Sir  Philip  came  unexpectedly  the  same  day ;  saw 
them  returning  from  the  ruined  church;  took  his 
mother  home,"  said  the  Russian. 

"And  challenged  Hapgood,"  Felim  concluded 
with  a  scream.  "They  met  in  the  field  of  Rath- 
morna,  where  Sir  Philip  near  broke  his  neck  out 
hunting.  What  seconds  had  they?  Faith,  't  was 
no  time  to  be  looking  for  grand  gentlemen,  you  may 
take  the  book  on  that.  But  I  was  attending  on  Mr. 
Hapgood,  and  that  double-faced  O'Sullivan  on  the 
master  he  desaved  and  chated  since  her  ladyship 
flew  back  to  the  ould  Gray  Tower.  Pistols  they  had 


HAND   IN    HAND  395 

to  it,  if  you  plaise ;  and  they  swore  us  by  every  book 
to  maintain  that  whatever  should  be  done  was  an 
accident.  I  'm  breaking  that  oath  this  minute,  but 
I  '11  never  reckon  it  a  sin." 

"Let  me  know  the  end  of  all  this,"  she  entreated ; 
"but  I  can  guess — Sir  Philip — " 

"They  tossed  a  guinea  to  have  first  shot,  and  it  fell 
to  him.  I  never  saw  a  man  stand  like  Mr.  Hapgood, 
his  face  turned  half-way  from  Sir  Philip,  but  his 
body  stiff  as  a  poker.  Flash  and  whiz !  the  shot  flew 
by  his  head,  and  he  never  winked.  Thin  he  took  his 
pistol,  and  with  a  bow  and  a  smile,  he  fired  into  the 
sky  above  him.  'I  apologize,  Sir  Philip,'  he  cried  in 
a  voice  you  could  hear  at  Bantry ;  and  he  was  walk- 
ing off  the  ground." 

"Good  Will  Hapgood,  brave  Will  Hapgood !"  ex- 
claimed Lisaveta ;  "and  so  the  duel  ended.  But  how 
came  Philip  by  his  accident?" 

"Wait  a  while;  we  thought  as  you  do,  O'Sullivan 
and  myself,  but  there  was  one  thought  different. 
'Hapgood,'  called  the  baronet  to  him  as  he  was  lep- 
ping  the  fince,  'you  will  not  lave  the  field  so  aisy; 
you  broke  the  conditions;  come  back  and  deliver 
your  fire,  or  as  I  am  a  living  man,  I  will  shoot  you 
as  I  would  a  hound.  To  your  place,  sir !' ' 

"And  he  obeyed?  He  had  to  commit  this  mur- 
der? What  men  will  do!" 


396  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

"No  less  than  that.  I  saw  the  tears  in  his  eyes — a 
thing  I  never  saw  before.  You  'd  think  he  was  to 
be  hanged,  and  Sir  Philip  the  hangman.  The  two 
placed  themselves  the  second  time.  I  could  n't  be 
looking  at  it ;  I  turned  and  shut  my  eyes ;  but  when  I 
opened  them,  Sir  Philip  was  on  the  turf  and  blood 
spouting  from  him.  Driscoll  says  't  is  a  mortal 
wound,  and  he  cannot  recover.  He  gave  one  turn  of 
his  hand  to  Hapgood,  but  after  that  no  sign  of  life 
in  him." 

"Still  he  is  not  dead — he  was  not — when  you  left 
Renmore  Castle,"  she  said  in  her  agony. 

"No,  but  surely  dying;  and  now  he  has  his  sinses 
— or  I  don't  know  if  he  has  them — but  night  and 
day  he  is  calling,  calling  on  Joan  O'Dwyer.  And  his 
mother — I  think  she  will  die  of  his  grief — she  'd  give 
her  new  wedding-ring  to  have  Joan  back.  I  could 
not  but  travel  the  world  till  I  found  her,  and,  with 
Mr.  Yegor's  assistance,  here  I  am  for  you,"  looking 
on  the  ground  and  breathing  heavily. 

Even  in  that  hour  of  most  painful  emotion,  Lis- 
aveta  marveled  at  the  lad.  "But  you  were  in  love 
with  her,  Felim?  And  do  you  come?" 

"That  is  the  raison  I  have,"  he  said,  and  turned 
away. 

In  what  words  could  she  praise  such  a  spirit? 

But  when  the  great  wave  was  spent  which  lifted 


HAND    IN    HAND  397 

them,  she  said,  "We  were  resting  to-day  after 
Sheila's  funeral.  The  poor  old  creature  has  gone  to 
her  long  home.  Cathal — you  know  his  soft  heart — 
cries  after  her  as  if  she  was  the  best  of  wives;  and 
she  died  with  Joan's  arms  round  her  neck.  But  Joan 
is  not  strong ;  give  her  this  night's  rest ;  we  will  set 
out  early  to-morrow." 

But  Felim  dissented  vehemently.  "For  the  souls 
of  all  belonging  to  you,  let  us  go  this  day,"  he  cried. 
"How  would  I  face  Joan  if  the  master  was  gone  be- 
fore her  ?  Mr.  Yegor  and  myself  will  take  the  girl ; 
follow  you,  ma'am,  when  you  are  able."  His  hands 
were  out  to  her. 

"No,  Felim,  I  am  wrong,"  said  Lisaveta,  wonder- 
ing at  him  more  and  more.  "We  will  make  the  most 
of  our  time ;  we  will  start  without  delay.  But  I  must 
break  the  news  to  her,"  she  added,  quivering;  "it  is 
the  house  opposite ;  we  brought  them  there  out  of  the 
cabin  where  I  found  Sheila."  And  with  that  the 
girl  left  them. 

Over  the  next  minutes  we  may  fling  the  white 
sheet  of  the  dead. 

THEY  journeyed  as  on  wings,  swiftly,  silently. 
Once  Miss  O'Connor  asked  in  an  aside  what  had  be- 
come of  Will  Hapgood.  Felim  made  a  sweeping 
gesture;  he  was  out  of  the  wide  world.  The  faint, 


398  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

fearful  voice  of  her  friend  startled  Joan,  though  she 
caught  none  of  Lisaveta's  words.  By  and  by  she 
put  a  question.  "Will  his  mother  live  after  him?" 
— she  meant  Philip,  could  think  of  none  but  Philip. 

"The  heart  is  broke  in  her,"  said  O'Riordan. 

"And  in  me,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  strange  glance 
at  him;  "but  you  are  the  best  boy  that  ever  walked 
the  ground." 

"  'T  is  enough  for  me  if  you  see  him  alive,"  was 
all  he  could  reply. 

Lady  Liscarroll  met  them  on  the  threshold,  her 
face  astonishingly  altered,  thin  and  gray  as  if  the  sun 
had  never  shone  where  she  came.  She  kissed  Joan 
and  whispered,  "He  is  living  yet,"  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  tears;  but  when  she  would  have  done  the 
like  to  Lisaveta,  the  girl  drew  back,  and  they  ex- 
changed looks  in  which  there  was  no  intelligence. 
The  greatness  of  her  crime  smote  on  the  elder  wo- 
man out  of  so  pure  a  countenance ;  but  with  a  slight 
movement  of  the  lips  she  passed  on  and  up  the  mar- 
ble stairs,  followed  by  her  visitors.  "I  must  prepare 
him,"  she  said,  speaking  to  Joan.  "Be  ready  when 
I  send  for  you." 

It  was  perhaps  half  an  hour  before  they  entered 
the  chamber  which  Joan  had  first  seen  on  a  night 
never  to  be  forgotten.  She  might,  indeed,  never 
have  quitted  it,  for  the  hangings  and  ornaments  were 
the  same;  a  spectral  silence  reigned;  the  light  was 


HAND   IN    HAND  399 

subdued;  and  on  the  pillow  she  saw  the  face  which 
had  haunted  her  with  its  melancholy  and  its  passion- 
ate fire. 

Their  eyes  were  meeting  now,  and  time  had  ceased 
for  them.  "You  will  understand,  Philip,"  said  his 
mother,  bending  low  to  his  ear,  "that  I  sent  and 
brought  her.  It  was  my  doing."  His  great  eyes 
stared  upon  the  lady. 

"Do  the  rest,"  he  answered.  As  his  mother  with- 
drew, he  put  forth  a  wasted  hand  to  show  what  it 
held.  "Your  promise,  Joan,"  he  breathed,  a  smile 
changing  his  features  to  one  radiance.  "I  kept 
yours — where  is  mine?"  It  was  the  token.  "But 
there  is  some  of  my  blood  on  it  now,"  he  continued 
after  a  little;  "the  shot  took  me  on  that  side  where 
I  kept  it  always." 

She  sat  down  by  him  and  clasped  the  hand. 
"What  will  I  do  for  you?"  said  Joan;  "you  are  sore 
hurt,  my  dear.  And  are  n't  you  sorry  for  all  the  sin 
that  was  committed  ?"  He  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 
"If  it  was  the  red  wound  of  death — and  God  forbid ! 
— whatever  you  ask  of  me  is  done  already." 

"How  should  I  ask  any  one  thing  but  your  prom- 
ise?" he  answered,  as  the  sound  of  feet  was  heard 
outside,  and  the  door  opened. 

"  'T  is  Father  Falvey,"  said  her  lover,  his  eyes 
lighting  up  again.  "Now  you  will  do  as  you  are 
told.  You  never  would  before;  but  that  is  all  over." 


400  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

The  clergyman  came  in,  vested,  and  behind  him 
Lady  Liscarroll,  Miss  O'Connor,  and  old  Cathal, 
who  fell  on  his  knees  in  a  corner,  sobbing.  While 
the  others  ranged  themselves  about  the  bed,  Father 
Falvey  spoke.  "I  call  you  here  present  to  witness 
the  marriage  of  Sir  Philip  Liscarroll  and  Joanna 
O'Dwyer.  Cathal,  will  you  give  away  your 
daughter?" 

"If  I  had  twinty  I  'd  give  them  to  Sir  Philip,"  he 
exclaimed,  rising  from  his  knees.  "Joan,  dear,  take 
that  hand  in  your  own,  and  never  let  it  go  from  you." 

Lady  Liscarroll  made  a  sign  to  the  priest.  "Be 
quick,"  her  lips  motioned :  the  bridegroom  had  not 
many  minutes  to  live. 

They  hastened  through  the  marriage  service, 
Philip  whispering  his  answers  and  Joan  giving  hers 
in  tones  of  clear,  low  music.  "Till  death  do  us  part," 
said  each  of  them,  casting  an  instantaneous  gloom 
upon  the  air.  His  mother  thought,  "We  should 
have  waited;  the  joy  will  be  too  much  for  him." 
Since  his  bride's  arrival,  the  last  remnant  of  life  had 
been  spent  prodigally.  But  the  priest  was  giving 
them  his  benediction,  full  of  good  wishes  and  bright 
hopes  not  in  their  case  to  be  fulfilled.  "Ye  are  man 
and  wife  now,"  he  said.  "May  this  be  the  first  day 
of  a  better  life !  In  God's  hand  I  leave  ye." 

"If  I  could  hold  on  till  Edmund  gets  here,"  said 


HAND   IN   HAND  401 

Philip,  sinking  back,  "I  would  go  then,  since  go  I 
must,  Joan;  don't  cry  like  that,  my  dear  wife;  per- 
haps I  have  been  a  son  of  bad  luck,  but  I  am  a  happy 
husband." 

"Edmund  will  be  here  to-night,"  said  his  mother. 
"I  have  a  letter  from  him.  He  read  in  the  'Times'  an 
account  of  your — your  accident — that  you  were  ill ; 
and  he  follows  his  letter.  Can  you  rest  till  he 
comes  ?" 

"I  want  Joan  to  sing  to  me  one  of  those  old 
songs,"  he  replied,  whether  awake  or  dreaming  it 
was  difficult  to  be  sure;  then  he  rallied.  "If  you 
would  sing  The  Brow  of  Nefin,'  dear.  I  used  to 
like  it  more  than  all,  and  your  father  gave  me  the 
meaning  of  the  Irish.  Often  I  thought  of  it  after 
you  went  away,  and  'the  blossoms  fell  from  the 
branches.'  They  did,  Joan,  for  me ;  will  you  sing  it  ? 
I  would  go  to  sleep  then." 

She  looked  at  her  dying  husband — at  those  in  the 
room — and  with  a  heaving  bosom  tried  to  take  up 
the  ballad.  Her  voice  broke,  recovered,  grew  sweet 
and  tender  as  a  cradle-song  or  a  light  breeze  among 
the  rushes :  a  music  that  had  in  it  all  their  life 
— delight  and  sorrow  and  separation  and  longing — 
blossoms  cut  by  the  winds  of  March  falling  on  the 
bridal-bed — the  bed  of  death.  She  sang  like  a 

stream  that  slips  with  murmuring  and  a  wreath  of 
26 


402  THE  WIZARD'S   KNOT 

foam  into  the  great  sea,  into  the  unfathomable  deep. 
His  dream  was  on  Philip,  and  he  saw  no  more  of 
this  world;  but  perhaps  the  beloved  voice  sang  in 
his  ears  still  as  he  went  down. 

The  girl  paused  suddenly,  and  watched  his  lips; 
then  she  arose,  put  her  arms  about  him,  and  laid  her 
face  on  his  face.  The  women  came  to  take  her 
away. 

"I  had  him  to  myself  this  one  minute ;  now  I  give 
him  back  to  you,"  she  said,  rising  erect.  "Let  me 
go  home  out  of  this.  But  I  have  no  home."  She 
paused  and  looked  up.  "Well,  God's  will  be  done. 
Come,  father."  Cathal  yielded  his  hand  meekly,  and 
they  were  at  the  door. 

There  was  no  entreating  her,  it  seemed,  until  Lis- 
aveta  said,  "But  you  are  his  widow,  Joan;  at  least 
wait  until  the  last  rites  are  over." 

"Wait  this  one  day,"  said  Lady  Liscarroll,  "for 
his  sake,  not  for  mine — oh,  not  for  mine.  I  know 
even  you  could  not.  Till  to-morrow, — he  would 
surely  wish  that." 

"I  will  stay  till  he  is  out  there  with  his  father," 
said  Joan  at  last,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the 
cemetery.  "Then  I  lave  this  place  to  you,  Lady 
Liscarroll." 

With  that  they  were  obliged  to  be  content. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

CEANGAIL THE    BINDING 

EDMUND  reached  the  castle  at  nightfall,  and 
Renmore  gave  a  sad  welcome  to  its  new  master. 
From  Lisaveta  he  learned  the  tidings  of  death  and 
marriage,  even  in  that  strange  order,  which  seemed 
natural  where  all  things  had  been  rapt  to  a  sphere  so 
real  as  to  make  the  common  day  imaginary. 

"I  have  had  a  severe  struggle  in  London — no  more 
of  that,"  he  said  when  the  story  was  at  an  end.  "As 
usual,  I  come  too  late.  Here  is  the  volume  of  Sir 
Walter's  poems  which,  after  years  of  neglect,  a  great 
publisher  is  bringing  out  with  every  hope  that  they 
will  be  celebrated.  If  my  cousin  could  have  known ! 
Where  is  his  mother  ?" 

"She  retired  early.  In  the  room  which  you  call, 
I  believe,  Marie  Antoinette's.  You  will  not  show 
her  the  poems?  I  would  not,  were  I  you." 

"Certainly;  I  agree;  no  use  in  ripping  up  old 
wounds.  And  Joan — the  new  Lady  Liscarroll — 
where  is  she?" 

"Praying  by  her  husband's  bedside.  We  go  in 
403 


404  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

and  out  quietly;  she  will  not  die  of  it;  her  troubles 
have  given  her  strength." 

"It  is  the  best  they  can  do  for  any  of  us,"  he  said, 
and  in  a  moment  they  were  the  friends  of  last  year, 
their  thoughts  in  perfect  unison. 

It  was  well  the  young  man  came  on  the  heels  of  his 
letter.  A'  shock  awaited  them  all  next  morning. 
When  Nora  O'Sullivan  went  to  call  her  mistress  in 
the  Queen's  chamber,  she  found  Lady  Liscarroll 
apparently  sleeping ;  but  it  was  something  else.  On 
the  floor  lay  a  broken  vial,  and  the  pillows  were 
stained  with  brown  spots,  as  if  some  liquid  had 
spurted  over  them.  Dr.  Driscoll,  sent  for  in  haste, 
declared  that  the  lady  must  have  expired  many  hours 
previously. 

"It  is  a  sad  misadventure,"  he  observed  to  Ed- 
mund, who  had  gone  with  him  into  the  room.  "But 
I  can  vouch  it  to  be  no  more.  Your  aunt  was  under 
my  charge,  in  extremely  critical  health,  and  I  pre- 
scribed opium  for  her  several  times,  though  always 
to  be  administered  by  myself.  No  doubt  she  felt  the 
need  of  it  last  night  and  took  an  overdose.  I  am 
ready  to  certify  the  case  under  my  hand." 

"But  where  did  she  get  that  quantity?"  insisted 
his  hearer. 

The  doctor  almost  smiled.  "Some  women  always 
carry  laudanum  with  them,"  he  said.  "I  can  give 
you  no  information  on  the  subject." 


CEANGAIL— THE   BINDING  405 

There  was  a  formal  inquest ;  but  the  dead  lips  kept 
their  secret,  in  which  none  had  shared,  or  else  the 
doctor's  wife  had  confidences  even  from  Driscoll. 
Mother  and  son  were  buried  in  one  grave  next  to 
Sir  Walter's ;  and  Cathal,  who  saw  it  filled  in,  spoke 
the  lady's  epitaph.  "He  has  her  now,  at  long  last, 
after  all  her  wanderings — as  I  saw  in  my  drame. 
Kindness  would  not  cure  her,  and  the  living  had  no 
hould  upon  her ;  but  the  hand  of  a  corpse  could  bring 
her  down.  God  rest  them  and  ourselves !" 

Of  Will  Hapgood  for  many  months  nothing  was 
ascertained.  He  had  left  the  country — in  what  di- 
rection who  could  say?  But  his  mother  knew  that 
he  had  been  given  a  commission  in  the  Austrian 
service,  and  during  the  furious  insurrection  which 
stained  with  blood  the  streets  of  Vienna,  in  March, 
1848,  he  was  struck  down  fighting  in  defense  of  his 
new  flag. 

Events  had  now  shaped  themselves  to  foreseen 
issues.  It  was  inevitable  that  the  heir  of  Renmore 
should  offer  himself  to  Lisaveta,  and  how  could  she 
refuse  what  her  heart  and  her  judgment  approved? 
But  they  would  not  stay  in  the  terrible  old  house,  nor 
even  keep  it  up;  and  its  ruins  are  less  forbidding 
than  were  those  haunted  chambers  and  staircases 
which  saw  .this  drama  played  to  the  end.  Airgead 
Ross  belongs  to  a  more  lightsome  world,  yet  the  vil- 
lages far  and  wide  have  disappeared,  or  long  lines  of 


4o6  THE   WIZARD'S   KNOT 

moldering  cabins  lead  up  to  what  is  left  of  them ;  the 
populous  country  has  grown  a  wilderness,  beautiful 
and  sad,  under  the  silence  that  followed  the  Famine 
and  that  still  broods  over  Glenmasson  and  Renmore. 
The  past,  with  its  dim  association,  had  no  future. 
It  is  hardly  now  remembered. 

ON  a  rich  warm  evening,  flushed  with  sun  and 
cloud,  the  sea  a  yellow  mist,  dreamy  as  fairyland, 
you  might  have  watched  Edmund  and  his  wife  where 
they  stood  on  the  terrace,  waiting  until  a  white- 
headed,  ancient  man  came  slowly  up  the  steps,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  a  dark  beauty,  who  was  very  ten- 
der to  him.  "I  am  not  long  for  this  world,"  said 
Cathal,  when  he  had  reached  his  friends ;  "and  if  this 
was  the  Wizard's  Knot  I  made  between  ye,  I  am  sat- 
isfied; but  I  'd  like  to  see  another  twist  of  it." 

Lisaveta  shook  her  head.  "So  would  I,  perhaps. 
Felim  is  a  fine,  brave  lad ;  but  Joan — our  Joan,  as  the 
people  call  her — has  other  thoughts.  Will  it  never 
come  to  pass,  my  dear  ?" 

The  dark  beauty  touched  a  locket  on  her  breast 
which  she  always  wore.  It  held  a  tress  of  hair, 
steeped  in  crimson.  "Those  are  my  marriage  lines," 
she  said,  with  her  strange  smile,  not  altogether  of 
our  world.  "And,  father — this  is  my  share  in  the 
WIZARD'S  KNOT." 


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